Never A Dull Awakening
by WitchWolf
Summary: Shorts, scenes and occcasional storyline. Chapter twenty four: You can take a noble out of nobility, but can you ever truly do the reverse?
1. A Walk In A Forest

**A/N: **

**I got a sudden writing itch that needs scratching. Putting this out here in hopes the itch will go away if scratched well enough. No ideas if or when or how many updates might come. Nor any definite ideas about the form of this… story? One-shot? Shorts? Not a clue. For now, just a little exploration of the team dynamics. For later? Who knows…**

XXX

**A Walk Through A Forest**

_In which the Commander is sleepwalking, Oghren is being supportive, Anders is being contemplative and Nathaniel wishes he never returned from Free Marches. Bonus apperances - Cat and Dog._

XXX

"SHIANNI!"

The scream pierced the morning fog and the ears of those nearby. The Warden-Commander jolted up. Her forehead connected with the jaw of an overly worried mabari, causing the beast to yelp and jump away.

Trying to scramble up, her hand slipped in the bloodied mud and she shoved madly at the first things too close for comfort, even if they were meant to offer precicely that.

Mindful of his clothes, Anders was crouching on his haunches. Misaimed shove sent him back ass-first into grass and mud and Darkspawn corpse.

Nathaniel was down on one knee. Better balanced and further away, he easily swayed away from the flailing arm.

Oghren couldn't be knocked over if an ogre charged him.

"Right, Commander. Up and at 'em." He grabbed the elf by the arm and yanked her up.

The dog whined pathetically, pawing its bruised jaw; Anders was cursing up a storm; Anders' cat jumped out of his backpack with an angry hiss; the mabari forgot about it's throbbing muzzle in an instant; Oghren was… Oghren, and Nathaniel wondered what in Andraste's name posessed him to ever ask for a Joining in the first place. He had his reasons. Good reasons, too. He was sure he must have. He just… couldn't remember a single one of them right there and then. None good enough anyway.

XXX

"A tree, Commander. Can't walk through them. I know 'cause I tried," Oghren stirred the still zig-zagging elf away from another trunk she was dazedly walking into.

"Mmhmm…" She acknowledged eloquently, acting for all the world like she's seeing one of those for the first time ever.

"We had one of those in the Alienage," she announced, slurring a bit still.

Oghren never missed a beat.

"Could you walk through it?"

Shake of a head. "Uh-uh."

"Then don't try walking through these either. Can't walk through your own tree, sure can't walk through these… foreign ones, runt."

"'tupid thing," the elf muttered into her chin. "Should've chopped it down and used it for kindling."

Oghren patted his axe with one hand, the other still commited to keeping the bundle of anger, also known as "Warden-Commander of the Grey", currently indisposed, from close introductions with the surrounding vegetation.

Anders padded behind them, muttering darkly, rubbing his behind with one hand and cradling the cat with the other. Mabari had a fresh claw mark across his nose, _again_, and stuck close to Nathaniel's heel, glaring dog daggers at the bundle of fur in the mage's arm.

Nathaniel let out a long suffering sigh and glanced around. A man should always count his blessings, he was once told. All he had was curses. He took inventory.

Mage, one, as suited to the grand outdoors as Dalish to the grand court. Cat, one, clinging to said mage, an accessory to a wilderness hike only a porrige-brained mage would think of bringing along. Mabari, usualy the only sane of the lot, currently fixated on said cat instead of everything else that might be lurking around. Dwarf, one, miraculously only half as drunk as he usually was, mostly due to drinking himself into stupid stupor the night before, thus sporting a usual hangover and belching loud enough to be heard all the way to the Black City. And their _leader_, still wobbly on her feet and still treating the trees as something that will scoot out of her way if she just keeps walking straight into them - a tought, worth noting, that Nathaniel soon regretted having. And they were only at the outskirts of the Wending Woods for Maker's sake!

Someone ought to be paying attention to their surroundings. And it was again item number six, one Nathaniel Howe, who ended up doing it while struggling inwardly from a) losing what temper he had in stash for the day, and b) going back to his original plan of putting an arrow through the Warden-Commander's back and calling it a day.

XXX

Anders kept up his muttering long after he really felt the need to. It seemed to annoy Howe and Anders was long used to finding what fun he could, where he could, no matter how childishly inane it sometimes was. What he was really eyeing, though, was the Warden-Commander's behind, and for once not because it was a better view than Oghren's (and to be perfectly honest, pretty much _ everything_ was a better view than that).

There was, he recounted, what must've been a sleeping spell. He still had only the barest idea about the magic an odd Darkspwan could wield, but from what he'd seen so far it was similar, in effect at least, to the regular kind. When the elf suddenly collapsed in the middle of a fight, limp as you like it, his first tought was that she was done for. He would've been right, too, but for that monster of a dog that saved her hide from Darkspawn blades.

But just as the dog was shredding the closest Darkspawn's throat into neat bite-sized bits, Anders felt another spell overlay the first one. Just the fringes of it, for he was at the very edge of its effect, but it did make his skin momentarily crawl just the same.

So, he surmised, Sleep spell plus Horror spell. Not a pretty thing, the second one, if you fall under its effects. Devastating, if you're already under the effect of the first.

He had no idea who, or what, a "Shianni" was, but whatever it was shook their Commander well and good. Although "good" probably wasn't the right word to describe it.

Either way, something shook the elf right to the core back then and as a healer, Anders couldn't just let it pass unchecked. He held his own councel, though; hardly a point in sharing his insights with the rest of the crew right now. Oghren would just belch and love his dwarvish resistance to magic a bit more for a while (although in reality, he'd just be pissed, as he always was when encountering a rare problem that couldn't be solved with a well-placed axe). Neither furballs could do much about anything and Howe probably didn't give a hoot either way.

The Commander herself wouldn't talk, not before she went full Oghren on whatever booze of her own she was stashing and Anders tought it best she remains sober for the time being.

The Horror was wearing off quickly - the only merciful thing about that spell - and though still shaky on her feet, it seemed the Sleep effects were wearing off at a steady pace as well.

For now, that will do.


	2. In Peace, Vigilance-In Vigil, Pestilence

**A/N: Writing itch refusing to abate. I'm scratching in any way I know how. **

XXX

**Vigil In Peace? Sure. Peace in Vigil? Not Likely.**

_Making it through the morning without the Warden-Commander popping a vein, hers or someone else's, one agonizing minute at a time. The new Arlessa has the social grace of a rabid mabari and Senechal Varel is thinking maybe the mabari would have been a better choice after all. Even a rabid one._

XXX

"What, in the name of the Maker's foul breath, do you need _me_ for?!"

Varel took a deep breath and prepared himself to explain things yet again. He was a patient man, and composed, but dealing with the new Arlessa was wearing both those attributes thin. Point her at something she could hit, cut or even bite and she'll jump to it as eager as you please. Fail to do so, however, and she'll go out picking her own fights, with anything and anyone, walls included. But try to make her deal with anything she _couldn't_ lash out at and you had a problem on your hands, as Varel was quick to learn.

He still retained some sympathy for her, hard as that had been on occasion. No one could be expected to be in the best of moods if woken up way too early in the morning after having spent several days on the road non-stop only to have a long day of pending trials dumped into their lap.

Still…

"You are the Arlessa, Commander," he said, placing both hands on the table between him and the elf. "As such, you have… duties to attend to." He braced himself inwardly for the reacion he knew was coming.

On cue, the elf bristled up, eyes flashing hot coals. "Arlessa, Commander, Hero… I'm gathering titles like dog gathers flees," she spat. _Thank you so much, Anora, for dumping _this_ into my hands. _

Varel waited. The elf leaned back in her chair with a grumble. "You're the Senechal. So go senechal, Varel. You said it yourself it's what senechal is for."

Varel shook his head. "I cannot, Commander-"

"I tought I was the Arlessa today," she cut in.

Snap, hiss, snarl, et cetera…

"Not alone, not the first time," Varel continued, unbaited. She liked him, actually. He knew that. She was actually sitting in her chair, not storming out, as she had done to Mistress Woolsey some while back.

"You need to make an apperance," he raised his hand to stave off an incoming hiss. "because the people must see their new Arlessa. Who is also a Warden-Commander. That, I believe, is the main reason why the Queen, long may be her reign, gave Amaranthine to the Order to begin with."

_That, and she royally hates my bloody guts. And she does 'royal' well. Damn._

Varel paused to give the elf a break to digest his words and get whatever barking retort she might have out of her system. She can see reason. Sometimes. But like with boiling cattle, one must let her pop a lid and blow the steam the moment the steam builds up. The trick was to time the actual conversation in between two pops, when her brain could actually focus on what was being said. That gave him roughly about ten seconds to two minutes to be productive, so he learned to time his information in short, focused bursts.

"Varel!" She growled and leaned across the table, half-rising. "I am _not_ a bloody Arlessa! I am a little Alienage rat. What I know of laws can fit in a thimble!"

She bolted up, shoving the chair behind roughly. Pacing like a caged beast. Exactly the way she felt right now.

Varel waited yet again.

"I know, Commander. I know. I _will_ be there, you know…"

"I..." She stopped and shot both her hands up. "I… Know. All right?" she deflated a bit, even squeezing her eyes shot for a moment. Her way of awkwardly showing she wasn't pissed at Varel, merely pissed in general. "I just…"

…_don't want to do it?_ No. No, she didn't, but suddenly feeling like a little puddle of shit over it? _That_ just made her _pissed._

She abruptly found Varel's office to be too hot. With a snarl, she jerked the doors open and hissed sharply in frustration.

… inadvertently startling a shadow making its way alongside the opposite wall of the wide hallway out front.

In an instant her eyes lit up; feverishly hungry, always hungry for a way out.

"Hey!" She cried out in a voice of someone who just discovered a gold-pissing nug. "Why not let _him_ handle it?!"

Varel couldn't see the hallway from where he was sitting, obscured as it were by the elf's back. However, all became clear to him a moment later when he heard her shout out:

"Howe! Come here!"

XXX

Nathaniel was just trying to get some breakfast.

He woke up early, stomach rumbling - another 'perk' of being a Grey Warden, he learned, something he'll have to learn to put up with for a while, alongside the nightmares, sensing darkspawn, being sensed _by_ darkspawn and, Maker help him, putting up with all other Wardens on top. Not for the first time he pondered slipping out in the dead of the night and not stopping until he's in Free Marches again. Some days, even Tevinter didn't seem far enough.

But he didn't run. Yet, anyhow. Every time the urge came over him, about twice an hour to be precice, the familiar walls of the Vigil, of his _home_, held him back. Except that it was home no longer. But felt like one regardless. Or was it just nostalgia for the days past that his conflicted mind painted way brighter than they truly were?

The cynic within him knew that to be true. But little Nate Howe somehow trumped the cynic Nathaniel Howe every Maker-damned time.

Once that it was clear he won't be making a dash for it today, Nathaniel settled for at least finding some breakfast - inner conflicts unresolved, but grumbling stomach, at least, he could take care of - and now he ended up cursing both himself, his stomach, and whatever else was handy for distracting him well enough to slip his usual guard and _walk_ instead of _stalk_ down the hallway.

As if raised voices from Senechal's office weren't clue enough…

XXX

"Yes, Commander?" Nathaniel marched into the office, lips a thin line of annoyance.

The elf already had her back to him and talking to the senechal as if he weren't even there. "There, Varel. _He_ knows this stuff, not I."

Varel looked at Nathaniel's carefully blank features and correctly surmised that the young man was probably already seething. In under a minute, no less. The Commander had people skills to admire, and with sensitivity to match. If your point of reference was a berserk ogre, that is.

He started to speak up but the elf didn't let him wedge a word in sideways.

"He's a Warden. This is about Wardens. He can do it. Better than me. So I don't have to."

Varel didn't even know where to begin explaining in how many ways that wouldn't work. Nathaniel, meanwhile, didn't even know what in Andraste's name was even going on.

The two man exchanged glances over the triumphant Warden-Commander's head, one now equal parts irked and confused, the other a mixture of sympathy and helplesness, and both contemplating the possible beneficial effects of a minor head trauma on one's health. Not hers - theirs.

"Commander..." Varel began.

"Is he not high enough in rank for this? Fine, he's now a General!"

Nathaniel blinked. Varel too.

"No, wait," the elf shook her head sharply, "that's higher than 'commander'. Or is it lower?"

Again, Varel tried to speak up but got cut short.

"Liutenant? Captain? Look, Varel, whatever it is, he's now it! Second in command, deputy, whatever! You sort it out. And I'm out of here!"

Nathaniel finaly had enough. "No, Commander. You're not." he quickly slammed the doors shut before the elf could bolt out. "Not until you tell me what in Andraste's name is going on!"

At once the elf's head snapped up, shooting Nathaniel a glare, daring him into full blown confrontation with instantly sparked glee. Picking fights was her soul food like posessing mages was demons'. Some day, Varel tought helplessly, she will be found dead in a ditch with her murderer claiming she was "asking for it". And, Maker help him, he'll believe them.

In the end, it was plain old hunger that prevented bloodshed. Stuck between outright stabbing the insufferable Commander and finally filling his, by now roaring, belly, Nathaniel's stomach decided his actions for him. The Commander will still be here, infuriating as ever, even after breakfast. Nathaniel was ravenous and he just wasn't having any of this on an empty stomach.

"What. Is. Going. On. Commander?" he growled out slowly in a remarkable feat of self-control. "Moreover, what is so important short of another Blight that cannot wait until after breakfast?"

The elf clenched her fists in annoyance. Whether at Nathaniel not rising up to her challenge or at being reminded of her own empty belly, Varel couldn't tell. She grit her jaw and flared her lips in an ugly, wolf-like grin.

"Better fill up real good. You're presiding over the trials today. …Captain." she hissed.

"No. I'm not." Nathaniel said flatly.

"Yes you are. I just promoted you!"

Still with that grin, and a slight hint of triumph.

"I am…" Nathaniel verbally stumbled for a second. Promoted? Stuck?

…trials?

Pariah he may be, but noble he was born and raised. Varel could almost hear it when things finally clicked into place in Nathaniel's head as it dawned on him what this whole mess was about.

He rubbed at his temples with one hand - the other, however, remained firmly pressed on the door - and exhaled deeply.

"You…." he shook his head as he fished for words, "You… either really don't understand a thing or you are flat-out refusing to," he breathed out at last.

The elf took a step back, clenching and unclenching her fists rapidly several times in an attempt to compose herself a bit. It made sense, Varel supposed - If she hand't learned how to occasionally rein in some of that anger, she'd long have exploded worse than any Dworkin bomb.

What triggered the rage spikes was easy: everything. Whatever nudged her to sometimes bottle them up though, was a random mystery.

"Probably and definitelly," she said at length. "Whereas _you_ do and don't. Which is why I want-" she backtracked, quickly, though not without effort, "_need_ _you_ to handle this instead of me."

She looked at Varel. "How did you ever imagine _me_ passing bloody sentences around anyway? Why, I-"

She kicked at the wall sharply.

"Dammit, Varel!" she snapped. "I'm good at getting people _out_ of jails! Not putting them _in_ them!"

Nathaniel couldn't help a short chuckle despite himself. "That… you are, Commander."

He… wasn't getting out of this, at least not easily, was he?

"Senechal," he turned to the older man, resigned, yet determined. "Can we please have three large breakfasts sent here? We have a lot to cover, not much time to do it, I am starving to near-death yet finding the Warden-Commander here entirly unappetizing."

In that case, neither was she.


	3. Sleep It Off

**nota bene****: Previous chapter was never meant to be posted, but a mess-up involving a sleep-deprived author and a wrong document upload had it exposed the public eye anyway. I don't feel like fixing my mess, so make of that what you will.**

**A/N****: Still itching. Still scratching. Having weird dreams lately and finding ways to shake them off. Question for the day: If you get hit by a Sleep spell, then by a Horror spell and shortly afterwards by yet another Sleep spell, how likely are you to dream anything even remotely sane? Answer: not very much at all. Trying present tense on for size because why not?**

XXX

**Sleep It Off**

_ After which none of the Wardens will look at the phrase the same way again and the Warden-Commander will wish she were insomniac more often._

XXX

The morning is crisp but sunny and with promise of warmth yet to come. The crowd had already trickled into the little square by the tree and she is climbing up the small wooden platform only the stairs are wet with blood and she can't remember why but it doesn't matter because she is going up to get married and she knows she does not want to but they all told her that she should and so she does.

She looks up and Nelaros is standing there with huge corpse flies buzzing around his mouth and everyone told her she should straighten out her wedding dress but no one told him to close his chest and clean out the blood and _Oh Maker, I don't want to get married to a corpse!_ but she cannot say it because it sounds wrong and no one listens to her anyway.

She climbs the last step and Soris is mouthing for her to hurry up and she is trying but her dress is too long and she can't but somehow she does and Nelaros is smiling but his ribcage is still open and he rips something out of it and says "I give you my heart."

And then Sister Boann turns around, only it's not Sister Boann but Mother Theolid and she starts talking about the bacon and the veal but no one is listening to her because Vaughan is climbing up the stairs and is pointing at her and _I gotta run, I gotta run, I gotta RUN!_

But she can't run because Soris is clutching her sleeve and Vaughan is shouting and the guards are coming in and the whole Alienage is looking at her except for Shianni who is looking at a bottle and _whatever you're drinking cousin, give it here, now!_

Vaughan is all bloody and he's shouting "It was _her_! _She_ did it! _She_ killed me!" and everyone is looking at her now and she wants to run, run, run but she can't because Nelaros is holding her hand and _Maker, her arms hurt!_

And Vaughan sees that and he looks at Valendrian and he says "Cut off her arms so che can't do it again." And Valendrian nods and _How can you nod and let him cut off my arms?!_ But everyone else is nodding, too, and suddenly there is an anvil in front of her and she's kneeling at it and it's big enough to stretch her arms across it and she starts to panic, _really_ panic, but _she can't move!_

"Cut off her arms! Cut off her arms!" Everybody's chanting and the Alienage is burning but she can't stop it and _Maker, Duncan is going to cut off her arms!_

And Duncan steps forth and he has a big, big axe in his hands and it's Oghren's axe, but Oghren is somewhere, drunk, and he can't help her and _Duncan, you can't do this! I am tainted! You'll kill us all!_ but Duncan doesn't mind and he gives the Goblet to Soris and says "Make sure you pick up all the blood."

"_You_ did it! You damned us all!"

"_You _caused this!"

The guards are pushing through and they're beating everyone and she wants to tell them that it was not her, it was Arl Howe, but nobody's listening and she cries out to her father, _Daddy! Don't let them do this! It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault!_

But her father nods and he is calm as always. "We don't want to be seen as troublemakers" he tells her. And she's the troublemaker and she brought all this upon them and now they're going to cut off her arms so she can't do it again and then she can get married and be a grown up like she's supposed to but _she doesn't want to!_

And now Duncan is raising the axe but it's no longer Oghren's axe, it's Darkspawn axe and her arms are stretched out on the anvil and she's kneeling and she _can't move_!

_Run! RUN!_

She wants to run but she can't. Her dress is too long and she can't run and she's not fast enough and Duncan will catch her anyway and why won't she just be a good girl and let them cut off her arms and then get married like she should _but daddy I don't want to! _

"Don't be a troublemaker," her father tells her.

_But it wasn't me - It was Arl Howe! HE did this, not me. Not me!_

But they don't listen to her. She's the troublemaker. And Arl Howe is dead and she killed _him_, too, and then Nathaniel is scowling at her and he takes the axe (and where did Duncan go?) and says "She killed my father" _but it was_ _his father that did this, not ME!_ and so he should do it becuse there can be no unrest in the Alienage and we shouldn't be the troublemakers and then he swings the axe high and-

She squeezes her eyes shut because she can't look and then-.

-and then straight down

_Maker, NO!_

XXX

_GASP!_

She jerks up, her eyes wide open and in the gloom of the stone cell she sees Nathaniel crouching down by the rusted steel bars, probing the lock with a makeshift tool.

"Please don't cut off my arms," she mumbles, her voice small and eyes expectant.

Nathaniel blinks once , frowns and looks to Anders for clues. Oghren opens his mouth to speak but Anders glares at him sharply and he clams up without a word. With no help forthcoming from the mage, Nathaniel does the first thing that comes to mind.

"All right. I won't," he says simply, and hopes that whatever's going on this helped and he can go back to probing the lock.

Before anyone can say anything else, the elf slumps back onto Anders' chest and buries her nose in it.

"It wasn't my fault," she informs the mage as her eyes close again.

XXX

Relief.

Her hands are safe.

And maybe the Alienage won't be burning this time.

XXX


	4. Unleashed

**A/N: /**_**scratch, scratch, scratch**_**/ A closer glance at DA:O tactics presets. Follow-up on the previous chapter. Also, present tense is fun.**

XXX

**Unleashed**

_One can learn a lot about people by observing the way they fight. _

XXX

As Darkspawn file into the cells room, Oghren lowers his head and roars like a bronto. Free of tought, devoid of caution, his fists slam into the first enemy in line, knocking it over in a shatter of ribs.

Right on his heels the elf rushes forth, forthing at the mouth. Like a mini satelite of anger. If it weren't dire, it would be hilarious. Gaining momentum, she dives down and slams into the Darkspawn's knees, her fist connecting low. Anders doesn't know if the Darkspawn even have man bits, but his own constrict at the sight.

Nathaniel glides in from the left, swift and focused. His movements are sparse, economic. He twists the Darkspawn's arm, using its own momentum against it, spins it around in a chokehold that doubles as a shield and grabs for its belt. He is the first to claim a blade.

Anders lingers behind, his focus blurred as there is no staff in his hands. He uses his magic carefuly, in little timed bits, mindful not to catch his allies in a spell. His inner eye, the healer's eye, monitors his allies' breathing, their movements, ready to send a burst of restorative magic their way. He's hoping he won't have to, not just yet, for his reserves are low and the fight has only just begun.

XXX

They round a corner, pausing for breath. The respite doesn't last, for another batch of Darkspawn is headed their way.

/

Oghren roars and charges again. The fight. This is what he lives for. This is what he is. They can kick him out of the Warrior's Caste, but they cannot kick him out of being a warrior. The Darkspawn howls as the dwarf smashes its ribs, mindless of a blade digging deep into his arm. He doesn't feel it, and if he does, it only serves to fuel his rage further.

He is the Berserker, and battlerage is his.

/

The elf snarls in the darkness, anger lending strenght to limbs too weary to strike. The battle sings to her. Not like to the dwarf, all focused rage and training - It's a blind fury, cat backed into a corner. She leaps at the Darkspawn and _bites_ at its throat, like a mad mabari; lands into a roll and leaps again. She fights for the fight, she fights to survive.

She is a Scrapper, and she wants to live.

/

Anders pukes a little in his mouth and hopes he'll be able to wipe the image off his retinas some day. He hopes there _will_ be another day for him at all. Wearily, he reacehs inside, a spell blooming on his fingertips, and he lets fly - a vicious wave of cold at the Darkspawn before him. But he doesn't stop, though his mana is so, so very low. He reaches inside yet again and summons forth a wave of bluish-white. It takes almost all that he's got, but he unleashes it anyway, letting it wash over his allies in a blisfull, rejuvenating flood.

He is the Healer, and he will keep his allies safe.

/

Nathaniel blends into the shadows, an unfamiliar blade uneasy in his palm. He rounds the Darkspawn oblivious to his presence, and brings the blade in from behind, clean swipe across the throat. Dark blood gushing forth but he's already out of reach, into the shadows and out again, muscle and sinew flowing through the dark.

He is a Shadow, and silence is his.


	5. Wrathchild

**A/N****: The mandatory prison scene; everyone else is having a take on it so why not? Upside down, because I can. Longer than originally intended. Possible follow-up in the next update. **

XXX

**Wrathchild**

_Warden-Commander isn't a fan of prison cells. Neither is Nathaniel Howe. That would have made it one Howe out of two, had the Warden-Commander bothered to check._

XXX

Raised voices and clanging of armour from the short, narrow staircase breached the heavy wooden door and burst into the cellroom. The guard in attendance fairly jumped from his desk. Barely old enough to shave and nerves already wrecked from the just-finished Darkspawn assault that he honestly tought would be the death of them all, he fumbled at his swordbelt, adjusting it in a sad attempt to stand to full attendance.

It was all Nathaniel could do not to snort at the sight even as his stomach lurched up and heart sank down to meet halfway. So, they finally remembered him, and finally decided to come. And finish him off.

He should have been hoping it would at least be quick - thieves would usually get a flogging for their efforts, though thieves in the Keep would be easily looking at something much more painful. Or far more permanent. But instead of dread, his insides were crawling only with resentment and deep, simmering anger. He had a lot to be angry about; getting caught in the first place was still on the top of his list.

The door swung open and the full auditory assault thundered in like a storm.

"…that you kept someone _locked up_ during the attack?!"

The voice was loud, female and a magnitude of angry enough to make the already nervous guard downright petrified. Eyes wide open and swallowing hard, the boy was scrambling for his best "I don't know anything and I am not to blame for anything. I am merely a guard following orders. …so please don't bite off my head?" stance.

And failed. Probably. The person storming into the cellroom did not so much as spare him a glance, still too busy shouting at the - Nathaniel squinted in the dim torchlight - yes, what appeared to be a guard commander.

"And it never once occurred to you to let him get out and _fight_?!"

The guard captain seemed taken aback. "Commander," he started incredulously, but whatever he was about to say, Nathaniel was no longer paying attention. He had presently realized _who_, exactly, just stormed into the room.

The rest of the conversation - the shouting and the growling and the staggered attempts at the answers - went completely over Nathaniel's head, drowned out by the furious pounding of his own blood in his ears.

_That_ was her. The woman, no, the _girl_ some part of his brain amended - and somehow that made it even worse - that had killed his father. The Warden. The "Hero". The imposter in his own home. The one he had come to kill…

And now couldn't. Standing dangerously close to the bars, again yelling her lungs out at the befuddled guard captain, she was infuriatingly close, at the same time infinitely out of reach. Nathaniel got the urge to lunge at her anyway, straight _through_ the bars if need be and if there hadn't been for the shackles holding him back he would have, sanity be damned.

Nothing of his seething was obvious outside of his skull, though. The boy guard darted a glance his way, as much to check on the prisoner (which was, he knew, completely pointless) as to tear away, briefly, from the sight of an infuriated elf who he understood was to be, Maker help him, in charge from now on.

There was nothing on the prisoner's face save a dark scowl, same as the day before and the one before that, and the one before that as well. He hadn't said so much as a single word since the Wardens wrestled him into his cell.

_Four_, the boy tought feverishly - he had never been so grateful in his life that every cell sported a pair of shackles built into the walls - four Wardens to wrestle down one man. He tought it unsettling then. And then the utter, complete silence from the prisoner became more unsettling still. But now he found himself strangely grateful for it and wishing nothing more than for the man to keep his silence now, too, for Maker help him, if a single more voice got added to this cacophony his scalp would burst.

"Surely, you cannot mean that-"

"What?! That when an entire _horde_ of Darkspawn comes knocking at your gate you don't need _every_ damned sword you can get?!"

Nathaniel watched the elf darkly, words scattering around his ears, shattered shards devoid of meaning. Too angry to think, even if he were inclined to right then, unless it's for a way to leap at her throat. Somehow. He was done for anyway - but if he could only go out by dragging this…. _murderer_ down with him, he would die, if not exactly happy, but at least a grimly satisfied man.

She still hadn't paid a single scrap of attention his way and Nathaniel didn't know if that made him more angry or not and why. It was emberassing enough to be caught in the first place, but to be treated like he doesn't even exist? Nothing, and even less than nothing? Yes. Yes it _did_ make him angry as a matter of fact. Even more than he already was.

"He would have run, Commander!" the guard captain tried. And failed. The new Commander looked ready to tear off his head with her bare hands and for a brief moment, he seriously tought that yes, she actually _would_ assault him bodily.

"So what if he did?!" she yelled. "If he's crazy enough to make a dash for it straight through a Darkspawn horde, then let him!"

She paused for a spell, huffing. Surely, captain Garavel heard himself think, she must pause for breath sometime? He heard tavern jokes about redheads being a handful but Maker, he never tought those stories were _real_

"And if he managed _that_, I'd go buy him a drink myself," she hissed in addition and completely shattered what coherence captain Garavel's mind still retained.

"Wait, what?" he stammered, his mind scrambling in an attempt to catch up. This was… this was just _wrong_! his brain rattled at him. You… you don't just go and… and… _free_ dangerous prisoners and offer to buy them a drink! You just… don't.

The elf turned abruptly and took her first real glance at the prisoner whose faith she was apperantly deciding. She couldn't see much, obscured as the man was by the shadows in the cell but right then she didn't care if it were a two-headed ogre sitting in there.

There was someone sitting in a prison cell, _prison cell Maker damn it!_. For days. Shackled. Before and _while_ the Darkspawn were attacking. If they hadn't been able to hold them off… if she hadn't arrived when she had… if they managed to break in here…

Blast! Him! Them! Darkspawn! Everyone!

She spun back to glare the captain. "Let him go," she ground out.

The guard captain blinked. If what she said before was incredulous, what he heard her say just now was downright insane. Surely, surely, he must have heard thaat wrong. Right?

"Commander-" he begun, and got cut short.

"Am I?!" she snapped.

Blink. "What?"

"Am I?" she growled, voice suddenly low. "Am I the Commander?"

Somehow, low and even was even worse than loud and shouting. The kind of low one hears from a mabari right before the beast lounges and tears out someone's throat.

"Why… Yes. Yes, of course."

"Then what I say goes, right?"

The captain nodded.

"Then so does he," the elf finished, pointing back with a thumb as she pushed past the stunned guard captain and out of the room.

"And give him back his stuff," she added, not loking back.

Garavel stared helplessly at her back for a moment. If this is how this keep is going to be run than things are going to get very bad, very soon, indeed. Still… An order's an order, he supposed and nothing he could do to counter it, stupid and reckless as it was.

"Let him out," he spared a half glance at the still stunned young guard. "Commander's orders," he added with a slight shake of his head at the boy's unspoken question, sighed deeply and moved to leave the room.

But of course, the faith wasn't done serving him his share of crazy for the day. And not just him - everyone.

XXX

_Let him go?_ Nathaniel couldn't believe his ears. Let him go? Just like that? _And_ with his things back on top? No questions, not even a second glance spared his way? That was just… Wrong!

He knew he should be thanking his lucky stars right now, the most impossible turn of events he would have been a fool to even hope for. And yet instead of pure joy, or at the very least profound relief, he felt completely thwarted. Growing livid by a heartbeat, as a matter of fact.

It was foolish. He knew it was foolish. He felt that way all the same. This… _this_ was his father's killer? Having a conniving "hero" be the downfall of everything he knew and cared for in this world was enough to send him flying from the Free Marches a furious, wounded man. But having it be a stupid, careless, oblivious _child_!? That was an insult even bigger than the injury.

_Patience, Nathaniel, patience_, he reminded himself darkly. Angry as he was, he had still been given a chance he hadn't dreamed of getting again - a chance to succeed a second time where he had failed the first. He's being let out, his belongings to be returned, too. And if the… _brat_ is too stupid to care, to even _know_, more the fool her.

The elf about to leave the room, Nathaniel observed her back through a haze of jumbled emotions, his mind nonetheless processing everything his eyes were taking in. Angry. That was a given. And if that was the usual state of affairs, his task would be that much easier. Movements, that of a poised mabari - snappy due to anger, but not clumsy. Slightly sluggish, though, no, weary more like. Two blades, blood-soaked clothes and light leather armour… Yes, fresh from the fight, muscles cooling down now and weariness settling in. Small frame, so likely as not to tire more easily. If he were to strike now, he could take her down in a single blow, and then…

And then what? Kill the elf, then run through two guards in here and several more outside - men, he reminded himself, who were just doing their duty, were in no way connected to the elf or her crimes and not deserving to die at his hands simply because they happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. And even if he could avoid the kills, just running through a crowd of armed men, all the way up, across the courtyard and out the main gate…? After three or four days of not moving at all?

Yeah. Right. As if.

No, better to bide his time, walk out of the Keep calmly and then return later, right before the morning when most everybody's asleep, in their beds or on their feet, and quietly finish what he had set out to do.

The elf stepped out of the room and made it for the stairs as the cell doors clicked open to set him free.

He still couldn't believe it, and when the boy guard nervously entered his cell, thumbing the key to his shackles in sweaty palm, the expression of sheer befuddlement on his face matched Nathaniel's own.

And that was about as far as he got.

XXX

"Commander!"

The elf blinked and was momentarily greeted by the sight of an armoured knee.

"The Joining is ready, Commander," the man said and before she could begin to process the words, let alone come up with a reply, the man covered the few remining steps and peered into the cellroom curiously.

"I hope you are done here, Command-" the man stoped mid-sentence. "Howe!"

Nathaniel jerked. The boy guard, already jumpy from being this close to a dangerous prisoner, literally jumped away, the key forgotten in the second shackle.

Varel. Nathaniel's heart sank. Why, _of course_ it was too good to be true. A sudden rush of sheer paranoia bloomed in his stomach and for a moment, the world around him spun. He made a conscious effort to shove the idea - and the feeling - down and away. Surely, they couldn't have put on such a show for his 'conveniance' only? Not so soon after the Darkspawn attack, not before they even knew who he was?

Well, so much for that last bit...

He calmly reached for the forgotten key and turned it, slipping his other arm out of the shackles.

"Senechal." He flexed his wrist, trying to ease the tension several days of constraint left in its wake.

Varel's look was as incredulous as it should have rightly been. "Commander!" he snapped his head back at the door, then back again at the guard captain and the boy guard inside.

"Why is he being released?" he demanded. "Commander! Do you know who this man _is_?"

_She will now_, Nathaniel tought darkly, shifting his weight. Had it been done on purpose, it would have been artistically cruel - to let him believe he will be set free, to even go so far as to unlock his cell _and_ his shackles both, allowed to get just the lick of potential freedom needed to make him actually _believe_ it was for real… and only _then_ snap him back in chains, this time for good.

Yes, it would have been brilliantly cruel if it had been done on purpose, and not in the least bit _less_ cruel just because it was spontaneous. In the span of a breath it took Varel to ask what he did, the guard captain to stumble for a reply and the elf to grouch back inside, Nathaniel weighted his options.

Thin. Pretty much non-existant, really. But damned be if he didn't at least _try_.

And he would have, but for the elf herself.

"No," she snapped, coming around Varel's back. "And I don't care, either! What the hell was that about the Joining?!"

Varel eschewed the second in favour of the first. "_That_," he said, pointing a finger at Nathaniel, "is Nathaniel Howe, Commander."

It took her a moment to even recognize the name. That was the first time she stopped Nathaniel in his intended tracks; gauging the distance he'd need to cover in a leap in order to get to the door, to her neck, or both, he wasted a precious moment as his mind skittered to a halt. _You can't even remember the _name_ of the man you killed?! Bitch._

That was the first. The second came not a moment after as the name finally clicked and she exclaimed:

"Howe?" she glanced Nathaniel's way once before turning her attention back to the Senechal. "Just how many of them are there, dammit?!"

To Nathaniel's ears it sounded exactly like "How many more Howes do I need to kill before they stop showing up?" and that was more then he could take.

He looked up from his injured wrist and landed a dark glare onto the elf, as full of hatered as it was contempt.

"I'm the last one." The bitter tug at his chest as he spoke those four simple words, - voice coarse and gravely, and thick with pain and anger and a dash of misplaced pride - filled his lungs with the mist of finality.

And now you'll die. But at least you'll die with your head up and standing on your own two feet.

…and the rest of the pathetic rubbish people tell themselves to feel better about their own demise.

Great, Nathaniel. Bloody great. You'll die. And you'll be thinking pathetic toughts while doing it. Perfect.

The elf looked back at him and ran a bloodied hand through her short hair in an angry little motion. "And just what in the name of Andraste's flaming tits are you doing here?!"

All three armoured men present flinched in unision as the elf spat blasphemy at the only unarmoured one.

"I came here to kill you," Nathaniel said hoarsly, _and given half a chance, I will try to do so again_, his eyes added.

"Yeah?" The elf did not appear either daunted or impressed. "Stand in line!"

"Commander…" the Senechal tried, already aware that he's fighting a losing battle.

"Commander nothing!" the elf bit out, effectively shutting the man up. Her attention returned to Nathaniel. "And if I let you go, you gonna try again?"

Was she… By the Maker, yes, yes she _was_! She was actually taunting him! _Daring_ him to try again. The little eager little tug at the corner of her lips, challenging flash in her eyes could not be mistaken for anything but.

It was more than Nathaniel could take.

"Yes," he hissed, even as his brain was screaming at him to _Shut! Up!_

"Good!" She flashed him a "bring it on!" grin. "Let him out," and with nothing more than that, she spun about and leveled a glare at the Senechal.

"And now. What. The. Hell. Was that about the Joining?" she growled out, bristling, the whole Nathaniel Howe business forgotten as quckly as it had arised.

It was obvious she had made up her mind, such as it was. Varel had known the new Warden-Commander for the whole of two hours, most of those spent fighting the Darkspawn and the remainder spent on watching her - quite petrified - snarl at the queen. Something told him that anything more he wanted to say on the matter would only make the elf dig in even more stubbornly and not back up for even an inch.

Also, clearly, she was finding the whole Joining issue to be way more important than a possible repeat attempt on her life. Watching her bristle, he suspected she must've gotten quite used to those by now as there must be very few people in the world who would spend five to ten minutes around her and _not_ get an urge to cut her throat. Or at the very least slap her around the ear and tell her to go wipe her bloody, bratty nose.

And _this_ was who the queen ordained the ruler of not only the Vigil Keep but the entire Arling?

Maker help them all.

XXX

_**A/N, take two**__**: There seem to be a number of people checking these drabbles out. I hope you are being at least half as amused reading them as I am writing them. **_


	6. Bile

**A/N****: Not sure what I wanted to acomlish with this one; I just needed it out of my head. And the City Elf Origin does say "**_**Conscripted**_**" so there.**

_**(Reviews anyone? No? …ah well.)**_

XXX

**Bile**

_Good intentions have unintended consequences. Ruminating her actions, past and present, the Warden-Commander comes to a conclusion that it's always some old man who screwes her up. _

**XXX**

_No, no, no, no, NO! This was _not_ supposed to go down this way, was not supposed to be happening _at all!

Fury was boiling right beneath her scalp, all the worse because there was simply nothing she could do about it. Nothing, save to stand there and listen to Varel say that stupid, _stupid_, Warden-speech-thingy.

"Join us, brothers and sisters…"

So high and mighty and solemn and important-sounding and full of honour and nobility and sacrifise…. Wynne would have loved it. The Warden-Commander positively hated it.

She glanced at Mhairi and her stomach flared up with rekindled ire. The woman looked so... so… _eager_, so happy right now. _How can you be so damn happy about this? How can you _want _to die?!_

"Join us in the shadows…"

…_where we shit 'duty' and piss 'responsibility' while waiting to drop dead on schedule_, she finished inwardly, grinding her teeth.

"…where we stand vigilant."

_Where _we_ stand vigilant, not _you_, Varel!_ You_ are not the one who's signing up to die! You are only standing there, sputtering nonesense in an oh-so-dignified voice as if that somehow makes this whole damned mess worth it_. Why the blight did those stupid Orlesians even teach him this thing? Wasn't this whole Joining business supposed to be, like, big, grand secret or something? For very obvious reasons, too. So why in the name of all the gods, real, fake and otherwise indisposed, did the Orlesian Wardens teach the Senechal of the Vigil Keep, a decidedly _not_-Warden, how to perform the Joining? The elf had no idea but hated their dead, bloody guts for it all the same.

How he had blindsided her! She darted a glance at the mage. Anthony? Andrew? Andy-something? Maker's farts, she didn't even know the man's name! And if he topples over and chokes on the absolutely worst drink of his life, she'll never find out either. Would it be possible, she pondered, to knock the goblet out of his hands once he takes it and claim it was an accident? No… probably not. She still wanted to try though.

Except Varel would only go back and brew up another batch. Damn!

"Join us as we carry out the duty…"

_Duty shit!_ It's not a _duty_ if it's been _forced_ upon you! How are you obliged to anything if you didn't want any of it in the first place, huh? She stole another glance the mage's way. He did not appear any more happy about this than her. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean for you to actually Join - I only tried to get you out of that Templar bitch's reach, is all. Didn't mean to _actually_ conscript you. _

Bitter, bitter bile found its way into her throat, tasting like Darkspawn and rotting wedding cake. Maker! She had no idea Varel would know about the Joining - why would she ever think that? With all the Orlesian Wardens dead, she tought it safe to invoke the Right of Conscription to get the mage out of a tight spot. With no one around who'd know better, she could've just let him stick around for a while, get his bearings, hells maybe even help out a bit if he felt like it, and then he could have been on his merry way. And all the better for the ruse, in fact: Chantry has no power over Grey Wardens, and for all anyone would know, he _would_ be a Grey Warden. So, he'd get to walk out of the whole thing free as a bird and on top, no one would be able to drag him back to that trice-damned Tower of his any more either. It was supposed to be a ruse. She never counted on it becoming reality.

She glared at Varel and felt nothing more than the urge to drive a knife through his throat. Curse you old man! Curse you to the Black City and back! Might've been named 'Duncan' for all the difference it would make.

Except now _she_ was a Duncan, she tought, and the tought made the back of her skull growl something sharp. She still remembered that night at Ostagar - if she lived for a thousand years (which, of course, she wouldn't, and now couldn't even if she somehow tried), she would never forget that night. The flickering fire and the look on Duncan's face. How Daveth grasped at his throat as he choked. Jory's blood on the stone. And: "I'm sorry". Her innards blistered. If there was ever a more double-faced statement she heard in her whole damned life?!

She bolted, of course she bolted. Heart pounding and Alistair too stunned to even try and catch her. Running though the camp, blind, _terrified_, the only objective to get away, the only clear tought in her dumbstricken mind that she _does not want to die!_

But he caught her. Of course he did. How could an old man run so fast she never learned. He caught her, grabbed her by the arm, twisted it around until it nearly snapped, brought her down on her knees and then put a knife at her throat.

"I don't want to die," she breathed, panted, exhausted from the mad dash-and-stumble through the nighttime camp; and completely, utterly, terrified. "I don't want to die."

But of course, Duncan hadn't cared squat-shit about what she wanted, about what anyone wanted - Only about what _he_ wanted and what his trice-damned _Order_ wanted.

"You can go back to the Joining," he had told her - and Maker, how come he was not even winded right then?! - "and _maybe_ die. Or," he had pressed the knife further against her throat, drawing a tiny little drop of blood, "you can refuse and _certainly_ die. Your choice."

_Her choice_, she tought both then and now. Choice my butt! It was not a 'choice', Duncan! It was extortion!

She swallowed hard and glared at the Goblet in Varel's hands so hard that had there been any justice in the world it should have shattered.

"…the duty that cannot be foresworn."

_Yes. That. _She shifted her gaze back to the mage. _And maybe it would be more merciful if you _did_ die tonight. 'Cause if you live, you'll be in this for life. And a short one at that. Exactly like your Tower, only far less time on your hands and there is _no _ escaping it. Ever._

Rats and damnation! _I'm sorry…_

Her eyes wondered to Oghren, slightly swaying and grinning like a madman. Which, she had to admit, was exactly what he was. But for some reason, as much as she resented that stupid girl Mhairi for actually _wanting_ this and downright _hated_ the fact that she had effectively conscripted the mage, thus making herself no better than Duncan whatsoever, she did not feel even a shred of guilt about Oghren.

If asked, she'd readily admit that she adored that crazy dwarf. But that was exactly it: he _was_ crazy. Utterly, unapologetically, wonderfully nuts. And stubborn to the bone. She had no doubts he would survive the Joining, none at all. And yes, it would shorten his life by some years but not even the Joining could be more dangerous to Oghren's well-being than was Oghren himself.

And besides, this was about fighting the Darkspawn. For Oghren, it was not a Warden thing - it was simply a dwarf thing. Or rather, she amended as a small smirk tugged at her lips, it was an Oghren thing. And you don't argue with an Oghren thing.

Her momentary mirth did not last long.

"And should you perish," Varel droned on.

_And you will. One way or another, you will_

"…know that your sacrifise will not be forgotten."

_Yes. It will. And no one will even care._ Her nostrils flared as she caught sight of Mhairi's eager, uplifted expression, the words reaching to her like they never did to the elf, and never will.

"And that one day we shall join you," Varel finished in a solemn tone that reeked of seriousness and dingnity.

Oghren grinned.

Mhairi smiled.

The mage shuddered.

And the elf clenched her fists.

_Well... Fuck!_

XXX

_**A/N take two**__**: originally concieved in a different way; might do a Varel-ish version to compliment this instalment. **_


	7. After Hours

**A/N****: That "**_**might**_** give it a Varel-ish add-on" note from the last chapter? Couldn't sleep, so scratched that itch instead.**

XXX

**After Hours**

_During which Senechal Varel alternatively wishes to return the new Warden-Commander with a "rejected, due to insufficient quality"stamp on her head, to have the Orlesian Wardens not dead and back in the game, to have a certain prisoner miraculously dissapear from existance but above all else wishes he could finally get some sleep. He'd happily settle for even just one out of four, thank-you-very-much. _

XXX

Varel glanced at the high window in the hall and sighed. An hour, perhaps less before dawn. Maybe he could steal an hour of sleep before dealing with that… other matter he still had to attend? But… no, no, he decided with the shake of his head and pulled the doors of his office open. If he fell asleep now, he wouldn't wake up, not in an hour and not in three.

A rueful little smile touched his lips. He was not a young man any more. Gone were the days when he could put together three nights in a row and feel only slightly worse for wear for the effort. He chuckled lightly at the memories of his younger self, shook his head and slouched into a chair, planted elbows onto the desk and rubbed his eyes. Maker, but he _was_ tired!

Events of the day (and the evening, and the night…) begun pouring into his head, clamoring for attention. Maker! He couldn't remember that much hectic activity since the war. Well, he amended, looking up in an attempt to squint the sleep out of his eyes, since the previous Arl's death more like. Those few days in the aftermath of the message, brought in straight from Denerim by a ragged curier who'd nearly driven the horse lame in a rush to reach the Vigil as soon as possible… Not, Varel reflected, the best of times, those.

And now there was another Howe in the Keep…

Varel grunted and pushed the tought away. He hadn't expected to see Nathaniel again. For some odd reason he'd tought the lad dead. Didn't know why - he just did. And in a way, he had been right. The lad he remembered was definitely dead. The dark, troubled man he had seen in the prison was a complete stranger. And a very dangerous one at that.

Varel thumbed a parchment on his desk idly. He'll have to deal with all this paperwork tomorrow - or rather, today. He sighed and leaned back, stretching and frowning. He'll have to do it, and by the looks of it, he'll have to do it alone, because if tonight was anything to go by, the new Commander was not going to be helpful at all.

Whatever posessed the queen to put _her_ in charge of the affairs here, he was certain he had no idea.

And so it would fall to him to keep things running, it seemed. He gave most everyone a night off after the attack. There were bodies, Darkspawn and not, to be cleared out of the courtyard, the sooner the better. But it could still wait 'till the morning. No one was in any shape to haul corpse and try to recognize and separate bits of friends from the enemies' stench. Not tonight, anyway.

First thing in the morning, then. And before that, he'd have to see to Howe. And after that, he ought to tackle the paperwork, get the funeral pyres organized, perhaps get around to drafting a letter to the Orlesian Warden headquarters to- No, Mistress Woolsey would handle that. …Because the new Commander most certainly wouldn't.

Varel realized he had nearly dozed off, temple leaned on a hand and the hand slowly slipping. He jerked himself up with a start and blinked at the wall. Maker, how he needed some sleep! But instead of indulging, he forced himself up and splashed some water from the basin onto his ragged face. Yes, and he also needed a shave. That, however, would better wait until he truly did have some sleep. It would be a complete irony, he tought wryly, to have survived a Darkspawn blade at his throat only to end up dead by his own unsteady hand. Heh.

The new Commander sure looked like she'd wish that upon him...

He frowned, the Joining ritual fresh and clear in his mind. The Warden-Commander had been most decidedly _not_ happy about it, about any of it. Naturally, a Warden coming in, expecting to find at least a dozen other Wardens already present only to walk in on a siege and corpses… And then to go through the ritual straight away, filling up the decimated ranks while the other Wardens' bodies haven't even cooled down yet…? That seemed particularly… callous, in a way. But also pragmatic, and if Varel had learned anything about the Wardens in the past two months of working so close to them it was that they were, above all, a pragmatic lot.

Or maybe that was just the Orlesian Wardens' trait? The new Commander certainly didn't strike him as a pragmatic type. Come to think of it, he had a distinct feeling he was lucky she didn't strike him to begin with.

The way she glared during the Joining, as if she were about to jump at any second… Almost… resentful. Varel plopped back into the chair and taped his fingers on the desk. Yes, resentful was correct. Now that he replayed the whole affair in his head, there was a rising certainty in his mind that the new Commander did not _want_ for the Joining to happen at all. Which, Varel reflected, made little sense in light of the fact that rebuilding the Order was the precise reason she had been sent here in the first place.

Still, that did not change the fact that no, she did not want it to happen, not by a mile.

They lost Mhairi. Varel felt a pang of hurt stab at his chest. Such a bright young woman, and so eager to join, to become a part of something far greater than she. And what a fine addition to the Wardens she would have been, too: a formidable fighter, if still a bit wet behind the ears, and a quick learner to boot.

The new Commander all but sneered as the poor girl hit the floor and died.

Varel frowned, unhappy. "I'm sorry, Mhairi," he had said, and meant it. The dwarf said nothing but that was neither here nor there - Oghren was… well, he was Oghren. (And Maker! He still couldn't believe that he had walked it all off with nothing more than a belch!) But whatever else Oghren was (and after tonight in Varel's mind it would forever remain "impossible to believe"), he was a warrior to boot, and had both seen and caused more death than Varel could even fathom. It wasn't calousness on Oghren's part, but merely... acceptance, done in stride, because that is how warriors work.

The mage, Aaaa…nders, was it? He was sorry all right. Only, Varel suspected he was more sorry about the very real possibility of being next than about Mhairi's death. Well, he supposed he couldn't exactly blame him. Especially considering he was, well, conscripted.

And that made no sense either. If she were so unhappy about the actual Joining, why had the Commander conscripted him in the first place and..? Ah! Now he understood. She had no idea he knew how to preform the Joining, right? And with all other Wardens dead…?

Yes, Varel saw it now, and was not in the least happy about the sight. The new Commander had no intentions of rebuilding, did she? Which was troubling. And apperantly no intentions of helping out with the Keep, let alone the whole Arling either which, while nowhere near as troubling as the first still left Varel in a highly unenviable position. Things… were not going to go well at all.

And the only _possibly_ competent person for the job (of running the Keep at least, though probably the Arling too, given time) was still sitting in the prison awaiting release. Only, Varel tought sourly, to return later and have another go at the Commander. Which, a trecherous tought occurred, might not be such a bad thing after all except that no, it would be a terrible thing, really.

Well - Varel pushed himself up with some effort - for better or for worse, Howe was about to given another chance to try. Not tonight, though, no. The night was over, dawn slowly creeping over the horizon. He had ordered Howe remain locked up for the night, to be released in the morning and no sooner than that. And thank the Maker that went down well, too, though Varel suspected it was more due to Nathaniel being too worn out to attempt anything rash than his lack of willingness to try.

And it was morning now. Time to wake Howe and see him out the gates. Varel had seen too many years to entertain any hope of that being the last he saw of him, but for another day or two at least, they would be safe from any more Howe intrusions.

Hopefully the Darkspawn won't come back too soon, either, though what with them suddenly… _talking?_ Varel was no longer sure. But that was a tought for another time he decided as he made his way down the hall and across the courtyard. The one thing the new Commander did prove she both can and is very eager to do was killing Darkspawn, talking or not, so there was one thing he could actually count on her to do around here.

And it was not a small thing, either, so he decided to tick that off as the one bright spot in this whole mess and pushed the prison doors open.

"Wake up, Howe. Time to go."


	8. High Politics

**A/N****: Attempt to bridge one of the bigger gaps the storyline makes: The Warden will **_**always**_** get the title regardlesss of who or what they are, so there must be some reason why even the most incompetent and/or unwilling ones get to wear the mantle. Criticism welcome.**

XXX

**High Politics**

_Arl Eamon has agendas and is not used to having them shot down. Queen Anora does it anyway and in the process proves just who is the more farsighted of the two._

XXX

Queen Anora pressed her fingers together, placed her chin on top of them and gave Arl Eamon a carefully measured look.

"It was the only reasonable course of action, Eamon."

The older man looked at the parchment resting on the table between his outstretched hands, willing it to say anything different from what he had read, and then kept rereading the whole morning.

"I don't understand how can you view," he tapped the parchment with one finger in a meaningful manner, "any of this as… reasonable, my queen."

Anora graced him with a smile. "I tought that of all people _you_ would be the first to understand, Eamon," she said, voice warm but firm. A diplomat's voice. A queen's voice. Eamon was still deeply unhappy by the turn of events; in his mind, it should have been Alistair sitting on the throne, not Anora. Yet even he could not argue that Anora had exactly what it took to hold Ferelden together in the aftermath of the Blight. Education and experience both spoke in her favour, her bearing in the wake of the Landsmeet that ended in her father's blood nothing short of regal. And yet…

The missive on the table was as clear as it could be: The Arling of Amaranthine together with the late Arl Howe's seat of power, the famous Vigil Keep, have been officially handed over to the Grey Wardens. That was the first part and one he was familiar with even before he had left Denerim the previous month. The second part, however, was a complete surprise and one that left him baffled and disaproving all at once.

He looked up at the queen, cleared his throat and begun again:

"When you declared Vigil Keep the new seat of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, you had my full support."

Anora inclined her head but said nothing. Eamon had been less supportive of her decision to subsequently grant the entire Arling of Amaranthine to the Order, too, but in the end conceeded that it was probably for the best after all. The history of the Wardens in Ferelden had been a rather… turbulent one and the history of the Order in general always had that one same problem permanently stamped on its back: What good are the Wardens when there is no Blight?

Everybody wanted a strong Order while a Blight was actually happening. And for a while longer, the Wardens would be praised and worshiped for their service and sacrifise, but once that time ran out? In between Blights, no one had any use of them and gradually, people begun to see them as an unecessary burden rather than a boon in their midst. They were still people, and people needed to eat. And sleep. They needed training and equipment and all those things cost money. And why, people would invariably begin to grumble, should we be paying for all that when there was no Blight around and no need for those… parasites to even _be_?

People's memories were short. Years would roll by and the Darkspawn attacks would cease and before you knew it, a Blight was a relic of the past and with it, the Order formed to guard against it. Every few generations, the cycle would repeat itself and every time, the people wanted to believe that that was the last one. Because no one wanted to believe such horror could happen again.

Anora knew that, and saw a perfect opportunity to break the cycle by giving a whole Arling to the Wardens to tend. That way, the Order would be basically supporting itself, with no further need to draw tithes from royal coffers. With the funding issue resolved, there would be no fear of the Order dwindling in numbers again - quite the opposite even - and an Arling would be functioning exactly the same, no matter who its caretakers were.

"And when you called onto the Grey Wardens from Orlais to come and help rebuild the Order, I tought the decision bold but agreed it was a sensible one, too," Eamon continued. "Even with all the potential problems we both knew it would create at first."

Again Anora said nothing but understood the meaning behind Eamon's words perfectly. He was too tactful to actually say it, but the unspoken sentiment lingered in the air between them just the same. Orlesian presence in Ferelden was still a sore spot and would remain so for many years to come. The fact that it was the only daughter of the late Hero of the River Dane that invited them in had caused no small amount of turmoil in the kingdom - was the young queen about to ruin her father's entire legacy with one sweep of her lace-gloved hand? But it had also sent a powerful message to the people. Two messages, in fact. One, it had reaffirmed the notion that the Grey Wardens were apolitical and two, that rebuilding the Order and the reastablishment of its permanent presence in Ferelden had the queen's full support.

Coming on the heels of the just ended Blight, the decision was - mostly - welcomed by the people, commoner and noble alike. And it also made it that bit easier to swallow the fact that yes, they _needed_ the Orlesians in order for that to work. At least at first, until the Ferelden Wardens were strong enough to take over on their own and, incidentally, send those bloody Orlesians back where they came from.

But of course, tolerance, understanding and the new-found appreciation for the Grey Wardens would only go that far. Eamon had fully expected for a Ferelden Warden to be appointed the official Warden-Commander of the Vigil Keep and, by extension, the new Arl of Amaranthine, too. He hadn't counted on Anora choosing the wrong Warden for it.

"But when you declared _this_…?" He left the sentence hanging.

Anora showed no inclination to fill the gap however and Eamon had no options but to eventually continue.

"Why her, my queen? Surely, you cannot think that Alistair isn't a better - a _far_ better choice for both positions?"

Anora chuckled inwardly at how carefuly schooled Eamon's voice was. He was deeply dissatisfied at Alistair not being declared the rightful king and he likely always will be. Still, she had made it perfectly clear that that was not going to happen and had flat-out rejected Eamon's hopeful compromise of at least marrying Alistair as a king-consort in such a way Eamon was wise to conclude he should never bring up that topic again.

It did not stop the man from wishing for it regardless and Anora knew it was only a matter of time before he tried breaching the subject again. But right now he was attempting to make it a point that this was not such time and that his objections to her choice of the new Warden-Commander were purely pragmatic. She wondered if that were truly so…

But she couldn't deny he had some very practical objections and was well within his rights to raise them.

"She _is_ the Hero of Ferelden, Eamon. For the time being anyway," she reminded him gently. "And presently, that counts for a lot."

"She is also an elf," Eamon countered bluntly. "And while it is an enormously bold statement on your part," he continued while privately still believing that even making the Denerim Alienage a Bannorn of sorts was too much, "there are some very real concerns about our... _hero_, to be taken into account."

He leaned forwad and pressed on. "I will not bring up her notorious temper right now - Maker knows there are nobles far worse than her yet hold their titles regardless. But my queen - she was born and raised in the Alienage. She has neither the education nor the experience needed to run even a Keep, let alone an entire Arling."

"Unlike Alistair?" Anora arched a brow, goading just a bit.

"At least Alistair was raised in noble holdings-"

"In a stable, you mean."

"In a stable, yes, and that is still much closer to nobility than she ever was." Unless it was with her knife at their throats, he added silently. "And afterwards in the Chantry, training to be a Templar."

"Which he never became."

Eamon stood up. "Which he never became, yes." He begun pacing. "But a Templar training instilled in him a sense of duty, knowledge of organization and a measure of discipline, all of which, I shall remind you, are essential traits for the one aspiring to run even a stable, let alone a Keep. I won't even bring up a whole Arling at this point."

He stopped his declamation and looked at the queen expectantly. Anora remained perfectly still, sitting as she were with her fingers still pressed together, chin on top of them and watching Eamon intently until he begun feeling slightly nervous.

"Sit, Eamon," she said at length and the Arl found his legs obeying even before his brain had registered the command.

Anora rose up from her seat without breaking eye contact for a second and righted herself to her full height.

"I have listened to your arguments, Eamon, and your arguments are sound. And now you shall be heeding mine."

She turned her back to her advisor and, placing her hands behind her back, begun to speak.

"You have made many points in Alistair's favour, Eamon, and I cannot rightfully disagree with any one of them. However, you have failed to consider some very obvious implications that your suggestion would have on my rule."

Anora stepped closer to the window and took a contemplative look outside.

"First of all, everyone in Ferelden now knows he is the late king Maric's bastard son. Everyone who politically matters anyhow. And you are not alone in your wishes to see this throne go to a one with." she grimaced a bit, though Eamon could not see it, "_proper_ blood."

She paused a moment, letting her words sink in before she continued.

"Now, imagine what would happen if I gave Amaranthine to him. To begin with, that would grant him a title. A _high_ title. High enough, perhaps, that he would make a proper and suitable match for a widowed queen?"

Eamon sat in silence.

"I am certain not a full year would go by before someone, or even several someones, would begin to put increased pressure in that direction, don't you agree?"

Eamon sank a bit in his seat.

"And that, Eamon, is not the pressure a queen can afford to deal with in these already difficult times of rebuilding our country from the devastation the Blight had left in its wake."

"Yet we are both aware," she raised her voice by just a tiny fraction as she heard Eamon shift in his seat, "that such attempts would surely come, and sooner rather than later at that. Which, in turn, would have every possibility of turning into an outright rebellion, should enough influential people misguidedly decide it is their obligation and duty to rally behind the one they percieve as the _true_ king of Ferelden. Whether Alistair wants them to or not."

She turned away from the window and looked Eamon straight in the eye. "Do you not agree with me on this, Eamon?"

She let the question hang in the air between them few moments longer than strictly necessary before sitting down again, her expression blank.

"Ferelden cannot afford another war, Eamon. Not now, and not for a long time to come. I would see my kingdom flourish in peace, not ruined yet again by some silly, pointless agenda nobody should ever be considering in the first place."

Her point made, Anora relaxed in her chair and smiled sweetly. "So you see Eamon, it was not a matter of choosing a _better_ Warden for the task - it was a matter of choosing the _only_ Warden suitable for the task. There is a very capable Senechal in charge of the affairs in the Vigil Keep and I am certain both the Keep and the Arling will prosper under his supervision. And while it is true that the new Arlessa has much to learn, I am also quite certain that given enough time and proper guidance, _anyone_ can learn to run things as is right and fitting."

A ghost of a smirk played on Anora's lips as she threw out that last bit, paraphrasing Eamon's own arguments about Alistair made not that long ago.

"Now, if that was all, Eamon…"

Eamon did the only thing he could. "Yes, my queen," he bowed and, without any more ado left the room, leaving a yet-again victorious queen to silently smile.


	9. Destination Unknown

**A/N****: Trying to wriggle inside one Howe's skull during the time not covered in the game; unexplored characterization gaps have always been my weakness. Riding on the assumption that physical exhaustion does strange things to otherwise determined heads.**

XXX

**Destination Unknown**

_Nathaniel attempts to regroup but draws a blank. Sometimes, the only thing you can do when you can do anything is nothing. _

XXX

A sudden gust of crisp morning wind blew in from the east, bringing the smells of the fresh-dug fields and, more faintly, the early spring scent of the forest further away. It brought back memories. The second, stronger gust, came a few moments later, bringing the same smells again and… was that a scream?

Nathaniel stopped and inclined his head, bringing an ear in line with the wind. There it was again, and stronger this time. Not closer, though - only more loud. And more terrified. Before he knew what he was doing or why, he was already sprinting down the incline.

He cleared a small creek just off the road in an easy jump, his pace not slowing at all as his boots splashed through the mud, and kept running forward into a dense patch of high bushes and a few solitary trees that climbed the slope on the other side of the creek.

It felt good, this running, though he'd rather it didn't. Someone was screaming, not that far but not all that close either, and that was not a matter to inspire this feeling of sudden fulness in his chest. But it felt good to have a direction again. It was the first clear one he had had in days.

XXX

Varel was no fool. He had not released him until early in the morning, thus foiling Nathaniel's half-baked plans of returning to the Keep the very same night. And he had made sure he wouldn't return for at least another day or so, too.

"Stay on the road," he had told him as he saw him off through the gates. "The moment you stray, I will send men after you. And this time, there will be no imprisonment."

Nathaniel had glanced up the gate, crenellations nested on each side, than back at the road and nodded. On a clear day, a guard posted up there would have a clear view of the main road for miles; the soonest Nathaniel could stray off the path and into the woods would be several hours later. Perhaps still enough time to double back and make it to the Vigil by nightfall, but Nathaniel was hardly in any shape to try.

He had been given his effects back - though Varel was clarely less than happy about that part - but not any food or even a drink. An empty waterskin, his bow and his blades, the clothes on his back, boots on his feet, dark leather armour and the few mementos he had taken from the Keep before the Wardens caught him were all his earthly posessions. That, an empty stomach and a parched throat. Varel wasn't a cruel man, but he was practical. He had no intention of making a repeat attempt at the new Commander's life easy for Nathaniel.

And so he had left, dizziness and nausea his companions for the road, and hadn't turned at Varel's parting words:

"Don't come back, Nathaniel; there is nothing left for you here."

They stung just the same.

/

He did stay on the road. For a while at least. And stumbled only when he had finally took a sharp turn into the woods sometime around noon. Seething pride demanded he walked without a shiver or a stumble, but it could only sustain him for so long. Fatigue pushed pride aside and claimed his very bones.

The anger he had felt for what by then became forever transformed into bitter resentment, curled up somewhere deep inside his stomach. It was also the only thing he had had in his stomach, for days. Shaking, he made his way through the woods, aware that he'd have to find some game soon. First, though, he needed water; the skin at his belt hanging empty and limp.

Splashing of a tiny rivulet meandering between the moss-covered stones had been like a symphony. He had lain flat on his stomach and drank until it felt like his insides would burst. And then he had pulled away, leaned against a tree and fell asleep.

He had slept until well into the night, and woke only long enough to drink again. It took until late into the next day to fully awake and master the will to move, his feelings frozen and head empty. It wasn't until he had found and killed a rabbit right before dusk, skinned it, made a fire and ate it that he had started to think coherent toughts again. He found them wanting.

The first was to turn around and go back - back to the Vigil to finish what he had started. But the single-minded determination that had been his guide thus far had retreated and left only emptiness in its wake.

_There is nothning left for you here…_

He still wanted vengeance, and justice for his family, murdered, gone, their name disgraced and thrown into the mud. But would that efl's death accomplish the deed? Vengeance, yes, and perhaps a pinch of macabre justice thrown in, but afterwards? He hadn't even tought about afterwards until now. And for all he still wanted vengeance - for he wouldn't, _couldn't, _let the crime against his family go unpunished - it still seemed deeply wrong to go back and kill for the pure lack of something else to do.

Maybe he should just keep going, a tought came unbidden. Follow the road to Amaranthine, board a ship and return to the Free Marches. He'd be a pariah there as well, but he was resourcefull and he had his skills. He could get by. He suspected 'getting by' was all there ever would be to it now. So did it matter much where he did it - here, or across the sea?

He didn't know. For perhaps the first time in his life, Nathaniel didn't know.

He spent the next day in what he tought was pointless meandering until he realized his feet had been steadily taking him towards Amaranthine. Midday brought a change of heart: it felt too much like running away, like giving up, and he turned sharply, suddenly disgusted by himself and his own weakness. His diminished anger returning along with his strenght, he headed into the countryside instead. Not back towards the Vigil, not just yet. The first time, he was not careful enough, sidetracked by his own nostalgia and waylaid by the Wardens as a result. This time, he would not make the same mistake again.

At least, that was what he had told himself.

In reality, the next few days he had spent in aimless circles, prowling the countryside with neither rhyme nor reason, the lack of direction unsettling and the lack of purpose perplexing. And thus, the sound of that distant scream came almost as a relief.

XXX

Nathaniel crested the slope, arrow already notched and ready. The sight that greeted him was not what he had expected…

XXX

_**Oh, Suspense! Oh, Drama! **_

_**In reality, just too sleepy to keep going right now. Also, it already turned out longer than intended. Scene to be continued…? Sure, why not? It seems like there's some interest in this, and I'm still finding writing it fun.**_


	10. Motivation

**A/N****: It's been ages since I last wrote an action scene, so trying to remember how to. Action-packed first part, back to narrative in the second. Raw and unedited, so mind the typo-bombs.**

XXX

**Motivation**

_In which a completely unexpected encounter leads to perfectly expected conclusion.. _

XXX

The farmstead was in chaos. Redheaded dwarf charged at the Darkspawn coming in from the left, cutting their path; a blonde mage got tackled from behind and crying out. A growling missile of fangs and muscle leaped over the fence and knocked one of the attackers off the mage's back. Further up by the barn, a shape too quick to make out clearly whirled in a circle, striking high and kicking low as the Darkspawn jumped at it from all sides.

Young girl screamed again as she kept running towards the incline, clutching the hand of a small boy as she dragged him along. The dwarf slammed into the nearest Darkspawn just as it was about to cut both children down. Nathaniel rushed down the slope and let fly, three arrows in rapid success burying themselves into a Darkspawn chest and stopping it dead in its tracks.

The boy stumbled and fell with a cry, almost dragging the girl down with him. Another Darkspawn broke from the group and leapt at them, short, ugly and set on a kill. His own momentum carrying him down too fast, Nathaniel planted a swift arrow at nearly a point blank range, dropped into a roll and barreled into the monster's legs.

The dwarf let out a mighty battlecry and swung his axe in a wide arc around him. Nathaniel came up from the roll on one knee and drove a knife into the back of the fallen Darkspwn's skull. He caught the girl's terrifed eyes as she tried to get the little one to get up and keep running.

"Go!"

Hiccuping with tears, she somehow managed to pull the boy up to his feet again and made for the top of the incline. Nathaniel was already running in the opposite direction. The mage let out a burst of ice from both hands, a shimmering aura glowing softly around his whole body. The blast froze several Darkspawn closest to him, the tips of the dwarf's braided beard and nearly Nathaniel's entire arm, armour creeking softly as a sheen of frost formed over it.

"Hey!" the dwarf yelled out as his axe shattered the first frozen Darkspawn into pieces. "Watch it with that thing!" Nathaniel hissed sharply, echoing the dwarf's sentiment and dashed past and behind the mage. The mabari had already bound back across the fence, rushing at the furthest group of Darkspawn from behind. An explosion sounded from that direction not a moment later and a small shape darted out of the thick smoke just as the mabari jumped in.

Sharp howling came from behind the barn on the opposite side of the field, closer to the house. The next moment three vaguely canine shapes jumped out and shot across the field. Behind them another group of Darkspawn came into view, three with drawn weapons and one doing something dangerously resembling magic.

It would have been so easy to just let it happen Nathaniel tought later: the elf bolting full speed across the field towards the group and into head-on collision with the three monstrous wolves that raced to intercept. But instead of yielding to temptaion, Nathaniel broke into run firing arrow after arrow, aiming high.

The blight wolves stumbled and went down hard as a rain of arrows suddenly fell over them and the space between them and the three Darkspawn guarding the fourth behind. The elf rushed past them without missing a beat and dove between the guarding Darkspawn's feet.

Nathaniel skidded to a stop and then down on one knee as the ground beneath him suddenly rocked as a powerful tremor ran through it, cracks opening in the earth all around him. A "Rargh!" sounded from somewhere to his left, a crackle of lightning like a whip in the air. A Darkspawn scream from behind, cut short in a snap of jaws. A whirlwind of blades up front as the elf slashed through the caster and the surrounding 'Spawns. The tremor stopping as abruptly as it had begun and with the final Darkspawn corpse hitting the ground with a thud, it was done.

XXX

For a second or two, complete silence reigned over the farm as Nathaniel stood up, a bit more shakily than he would have liked. And then slowly, the sounds started pouring back in.

The dwarf's heavy boots splashed through the mud as he grunted his way towards the barn, the mage not far behind and complaining. The elf extracted herself rom the Darkspawn heap and staggered a few steps forth, breathing heavily. The mabari bounced past Nathaniel and rushed to her side. "Woof!" he stated happily as he planted himself in front of her, tail wagging hard.

The elf placed a hand on the dog's wide head and gave him a small grin. "Good boy, Bandit," she patted the beast before looking up. "Anders!" She staggered another step forward, clutching the mabari for support. "A little help here?"

The mage picked up the pace and passed by Nathaniel with only a passing, though slightly curious glance in his direction. The dwarf, however, stopped when he reached him, gave him a once over and a grin. "Nice shootin' "

Nathaniel nodded absently and moved the hair out his eyes, still looking at the elf ahead.

"Why did you name your dog 'Bandit' again?" the mage - Anders - asked even as he begun casting a spell, much to the dwarf's amusement if a grin spreading on his face was any indication.

"Biscuit didn't suit him," the elf shrugged and winced, "Dark Fang the Mighty Destroyer of Darkspawn was a mouthfull and- Aaaahhhh…" a wave of healing magic washed over her in a rejuvenating wave, "…and Fen'Harel was just too bloody pretentious."

"And also," the elf flashed the mage a grin, "because whenever I cry "Bandit!" half the people I'm with jump and ask "Where?!" And then she caught sight of a surprise extra in their midst.

There was a snort from the mage and a "He… hehe.. hehehe" from the dwarf as the elf made her way towards him, her hand still on the mabari's head but her gaze fixed firmly on Nathaniel.

"You know," she addressed him, stopping few paces away and next to the blight wolf corpse, "If this was another attempt, it was piss poor." She toed the corpse with the tip of her boot with a 'huh'. A single arrow portruded from the beast's neck, several others scattered around, some in the ground but most buried in the remaining wolves. The elf arched her eyebrows: "I'm not complaining, mind."

Nathaniel shifted weight from heeels to toes as the dwarf gave him a slightly less friendly glance at this. The mage threw both him and the elf a curious one as he stepped beside her. "You two know each other?"

"Mhm," she nodded absently, still looking down at the wolf but in reality at Nathaniel's subtle change of stance. "He's the guy from the prison. Howe."

"Oh." the mage blanched slightly a took a step back. He hadn't paid that much attention to that particular story but he did remember the part where it took four Grey Wardens to wrestle that one down.

"Wait, you're Rendon Howe's little blighter?" the dwarf said at the same time, the axe in his hands suddenly looking rather more menacing than a moment before.

Several toughts colided in Nathaniel's head as they all scrambled for immediate attention at once. Resentment at hearing his father's name said in that particular tone of voice - the only tone in which anyone ever spoke of him nowdays. The fact that the huge mabari was giving him a very careful glance from not two feet away. The mage flexing his hand on impulse, soft sheen of a spell yet unfromed curling around his fingers. The elf, deceptively quick and way fiercer in battle than he had originally assumed. Suddenly running up that incline and then diving straight into the frey didn't seem like such a good idea any more.

Except that it was and he knew he'd have done the same even if he had known what to expect. Not that there was a split second in which to think to begin with - only barely enough time in which to act.

It took only a moment to take it all in but apperantly enough time for the elf to lose interest in Nathaniel and his sudden apperance. Bot the dwarf and the mage, and yes, the mabari too, were still looking at him, but she was already looking away, surveying the carnage they just left in their wake.

Nathaniel followed suit even as the dwarf growled out a question, and caught sight of two small, trembling figures huddling by the bush patch at the top of the incline at the same time the elf did.

"Soooo… What are _you_ doing here, then?" The dwarf finegred the handle of his axe, adjusting the grip. The elf tugged lightly at the mabari's ear and started walking away from the group. Realizing there is suddenly no more elf or mabari in between him and the newcomer, the mage moved to follow.

Nathaniel looked at the dwarf and then back at the surrounding wreckage of the farm.

"I…"

He took in the sight as his mind raced furiously. The farm was in ruins. Darkspawn everywhere. Monstrous beasts prowled the surrounding forests. And a mad dwarf, a reluctant mage and a wound-up elf with a dog all that stood between them and the two frightened children up ahead.

And this was just one farm…

"I want to help."

The dwarves' eyebrows furrowed up in a knot but the mage beat him to the punchline.

"Yes? And here I tought you just wanted to kill the Commander. How, exactly, did you imagine that to be helpful again?"

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes in irritation. The mage _was_ right. And he _did_ want to kill her, but…

"This is more important."

Neither man expected what came next: the dwarf 's eyes went wide and then he dropped the business end of his axe down and burst out laughing.

"Commander! You're a natural!" he called after the elf. "Gonna start a whole collection?"

The elf shrugged without pausing or looking back. "Everyone needs a hobby." The dwarf just laughed harder and moved to follow.

The mage shrugged and tilted his head. "True enough, I guess." His smile met Nathaniel's frown. "Mine's escaping from the Circle Tower. What's yours?"

Before Nathaniel could say anything, and doubtful he knew what to say to _that_, the elf stopped in her tracks and turned around.

"This land's fucked." There was just a pinch more concerned than snarl in her voice.

The dwarf stopped and looked around. "Aye. We'll pile up, you go," he added after the elf failed to move. She nodded once and then started towards the incline again as the dwarf doubled back and gave Nathaniel and the mage a yell.

"Well? What are you two waiting for? A kiss? These blighters ain't gonna haul themselves!" He grabbed the nearest Darkspawn by the leg and begun dragging.

The mage glanced at the corpse at his feet with a "eew" look on his face. He then glanced at the dwarf and made an even bigger "eeew" at the notion of that kiss, sighed at his cruel faith and reached for the blight wolf's tail. The dwarf tossed the one he was dragging on top of another one nearby and went looking for a third. Nathaniel bent down, got hold of another corpse and moved to add to the pile.

The dwarf fell in line beside him, dragging his haul. "Me and the Commander, we go a way back, you know," he said conversationally. "She says it's fine, that's good enough for me- Nugnuts!" he cursed as his Darkspawn got caught on a rock. He pulled it off with a grunt and continued. "Now, the Commander, she's got a temper all right, but you do fine by her and she'll have your back in a pitch." He gave Nathaniel a sideways look, joviality slipping to reveal something much darker beneath. "But you do something dumb, and you'll find my axe in it."

Nathaniel didn't stop nor flinch, merely gave it a nod without looking the dwarf's way. "Understood."

"Hehe. I see we'll get along marvelously."

XXX

Dusk was sneaking over the horizon by the time they set the last pile of Darkspawn to flames. Not only do they stink like nugfart the dwarf, Oghren, had explained as they kept dragging their corpses to the pyres, they spread the blight, alive _and_ dead. Leave them to rot, and it'll seep into the land, blighting it for years to come, often to never recover at all. It made Nathaniel edgy just thinking about it: Amaranthine soil was fertile, easily feeding the entire Arling with enough left for both store and trade. The possibility of it going blighted, having people survive the Darkspawn blades only to be doomed to starvation afterwards, tied a knot of apprehension in his gut. Pariah or not, this was still his home.

And it was that tought that, in the end, won out the day. His father may be dead and his killer currently sitting not three paces away, poking the campfire idly, but the urge to drive the dagger through her neck got pushed aside not by the presence of a watchful mabari or a protective dwarf (already dozing mage did not currently figure into the equasion though Nathaniel suspected he should probably count him in, too) but by the notion that these four, such as they were, were the only force currently around with any chance of truly standing up to this Darkspawn incursion that shouldn't have been happening in the first place. For the sake of his home and all the people in it, he couldn't reduce the already pathetic number down to just three.

Nor could he stand idly by and let the imposter and her troupe fight to protect his home in his stead. And so he put his grudge aside, for the time being at least, and remained even after the pyres burned down and he was free to go. His vengeance could wait or, if it comes to that, even go unfulfilled if need be, if it meant his home would be made safe again. He reflected back on his words earlier in the day and found they rang true:

This _was_ more important.

And they needed him. He snorted with disdain as he recalled another exchange that came later in the day, after Anders returned with the litle one's father and older brother who were working the far field at the time of the attack and were thus, mercifully, spared in the attack. The kids still lost their mother, grandmother and - he couldn't help but cringe again - a kid sister, still in the cradle - to the Darkspawn.

It was the elf who found the corpses, he recalled, and she spent good long while just… staring, with an unreadable expression on her face. Was it one of sorrow, brewing anger or merely aloof, Nathaniel couldn't tell. It was easiest to think it was the last one, but even as he examined the idea he knew it wasn't true.

Regardless, she kept the children busy and away from the sight as he and Oghren, and yes, the mabari too, kept building piles while Anders went to fetch their father under the pretext of a pair of peasents probably not likely to react too well to a sudden apperance of a blood-covered elf. Which was true, and the fact that he had also neatly avoided the task of hauling Darkspawn around was just a welcome bonus.

It was around that time that Oghren brought up the subject of their next destination. Some swamp or something, he had said. It turned out to be the Blackmarsh and - Nathaniel's anger reared its head again - these four didn't even have an idea where it was. Which, apperantly, didn't stop them from heading there anyway. How they were plannign to acomplish that was anyone's guess and in the brief time he had spent with them Nathaniel came to a fast conclusion that "planning" was not something that figured much into the… Commander's way of doing things. Such careless incompetence irritated him on the best day, but in people, especially one, who were the best protection his home had right now, who, for points and purposes now - his jaw clenched at the notion - actually _owned_ it… It was enough to instantly drive him near-livid.

And also enough for him to definitely stay, whether they wanted him to or not. There was, it turned out, an Orlesian Grey Warden who was not at Vigil at the time of the attack. His wife came from Amaranthine and told them he left for Blackmarsh about a week prior to investigate a possible Darkspawn gathering in there. Blackmarsh was a haunted place as it was, Nathaniel recalled with a slight shiver and adding Darkspawn to the mix only made it an even less desirable destination than it always was.

Still, the elf seemed very keen on the possibility of finding another Warden aside from herself. An experianced one, that is. Both Oghren and Anders were also of the Order - a fact that had both confused him and made his already low opinion of the Order fall even worse. But it seemed that the elf truly wanted to find another one, if only because she wanted "_someone to take this trice-damned mess off my fucking hands_!" Despite himself, Nathaniel found himself in full agreement with her wishes: anyone, even anotehr Warden, even an _Orlesian_ one, would still definitelly be better than _her_ in charge.

And so Blackmarsh it is, he tought as he laid back and closed his eyes, fragments of tales he had heard about it as a child filtering back into his mind. HE pushed back hard against the wave of nervousness that crept up on him.

Really - How bad could it be?


	11. The Road Home

**A/N****: Still on the trail of Nathaniel's story arc; as one scene ends, another one springs from it. This amuses me, so riding that pony for as long as it's inclined to trot. Side-helping of Anders thrown in for good measure. Still grappling with getting both his voice and personality right; should any generous souls feel inclined to slip some input on it, much obliged.**

XXX

**The Road Home**

_Anders is prodding, Oghren is biting, Nathaniel is pensive and the Warden-Commander cranky. In other words: it's Tuesday._

XXX

They left Justice behind. No one honestly knew what else to do. "I dunno… Partol the roads or something?" the elf had said. Luckily, the spirit agreed. They couldn't have brought him back to the Keep anyway; as Anders had pointed out, he was kinda… decomposing. "People tend to have views about that, you know. And explaining that you are really a spirit, even a good spirit and not, say, a _demon…_ Oh, that would go down just _splendidly._" And it would have probably brought the Templars down upon them quicker than you could say "blood mage!" Anders had added privately.

Howe had agreed. Oghren did not have much to say on the matter, still busy shaking off the improptu visit to the last place he had imagined any dwarf would ever find himself in and the Commander was still having fits about having to go through the Fade a second time. She did seem to have enjoyed killing the Baroness very, very much though. Oghren had known it would come to that even while Anders had still been arguing for siding with her in order to escape. Turned out, that line about _owning_ the people was a really, _really_ wrong thing to say within the Commander's earshot. Nobility does make one have a way with words, doesn't it?

Or not, Anders amended, glancing at the silent man who took up the rear as they started trudging back to the Keep. What a merry band they were, eh? The only one looking truly happy right now was the mabari, running up in front of the group then bouncing back with a "Woof!" as if to say "What's taking you so long?" Of course, _he_ did not get pulled into the Fade so Anders supposed he had every reason in the world to be happy. Good thing that he didn't, too - Only the mind passed into the Fade, not the body. Had the dog not been around to guard their physical forms while they were out frolicking through the haunted nightmare's nightmare… Well, let's just say they could have all ended up patroling the roads with Justice right now. _If_ they were lucky, that is.

"So, commander," he finally grew tired of silence. "The Darkspawn - They're not usually that chatty, are they?"

"Nope."

"Hm. So, you don't supose we could organize a debate club, huh? Nice little sit-around, blighted marshmellows, cheer and goodwill all around?"

Oghren looked at him as if he had sprouted another head. The elf snorted. "Sure, why not? We could trade tips on Fade vacations."

"Ah. …Right. They… don't usually send people to the Fade either, yes?"

This time, Oghren really gave him a look. Somewhere between terrifying and terrified. It cheered Anders up.

The elf shrugged. "Dunno. Never done it to me before. My last trip was by a sloth demon."

Anders cocked his head. "Not Uldred then?"

"Uh-uh. We _were_ headed to get him; sloth just got in the way."

And now both were dead. Well… It wasn't that he was trilled about this whole Grey Warden business - too much mud, blood and Darkspawn and too few taverns and good night sleep for his tastes. Plus the whole Taint thing, though what the Commander had told him when he woke up after his Joining - and they remained talking throughout the night - did give him some hopes in that regard. Slim, but nonetheless there. He truly didn't trust blood mages and doubtful he'd like to actually meet that Avernus fellow, but still - there _was_ hope.

And in the meantime, if he had to be anywhere, he might as well be with someone who stormed through the Tower and wiped it clean of abominations _and_ saving the remaining mages while the _Templars_ were twiddling their thumbs behind barred doors and waited for the Right of Annulement to arrive. As if they hadn't been waiting for an excuse to do that anyway.

He shook the toughts away, looked around and smiled. He was tired and the stench of the swamp clung to him like a cloak, but he was alive, all limbs attached, proper places and all, and the Chantry had no authority over the Grey Wardens. Alive and free, Anders tought. Having to occasionally wade knee-deep in Darkspawn seemed like a small price to pay for either, let alone both.

He would, however, have to get away to Amaranthine soon. That was where he was originally headed when the Templars caught up with him and afterwards… Well, what between getting conscripted, Joined, dragged out on the road, blasted to the Fade et cetera, he didn't quite have a chance to do it yet. He doubted Namaya was still even there, but he had to check. Being _practically_ free from the Chantry was nice, but he'd prefer it to be _actually_ free if possible, thanks. He'll ask the Commander to give him a leave once they return to the Keep. He knew she'd give it - if he told her he wanted to quit and go, right now, she'd likely even throw him a farewell party - so that shouldn't be a problem. Hopefully the Darkspawn will be equally obliging once he actually hits the road.

But speaking of Darkspawn, there was that one thing that kept pecking at the back of his mind…

"Um... Commander? The Darkspawn don't exactly have, you know, _mothers_?" The one that sent them to the Fade did swear vengeance on one. And more disturbing than the tought of Darkspawn, ummm... _procreating_ \- Anders shuddered - was the tought that this Mother, whatever she (it?) was, had enough power to send them into the Fade, and via proxy at that.

The elf stopped abruptly, her back going stiff. She and Oghren exchanged a troubled look.

"They do." Her voice was quiet, hollow. She begun walking again. "Let's not talk about it."

But the mabari wasn't the only one who could be dogged about things.

"I think we'll have to, Commander. Because that Darkspawn - The First, was it? - did mention her quite a bit as I recall." He still blanched at just finding out that yes, there apperantly _was_ such a thing as Darkspawn procreation.

"Later," she replied, ending the discussion. Anders was still not willing to let it go, but Oghren cut it short:

"Funny story: dwarf attacks mage. Dwarf wins."

"It's _not_ funny."

"Hehe. _I_ was having fun."

Anders sighed dramatically. "Your ideas of _fun_ Oghren are as refined as your taste in clothing."

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

"They stink."

"Well, you don't smell like a daisy yourself."

"At least _I_ am aware of the concept of bathing afterwards."

"Huh. I bathe."

"In spirits."

"Says a mage."

"Oh?! A word play? I'm impressed, Oghren. Why, if you keep this up, I'll even start…"

And the bickering continued on.

XXX

And hardly stopped when they broke camp for the night, neitehr Anders nor Oghren willing to let the other one get the last word, the elf occasionally piping in only to spur them on. Even the mabari joined on occasion, although his contributions mostly amounted to "Woof!". The only one who kept his silence was Nathaniel and for once, he did not mind. As long as they all had a go at one another, nobody was bothering _him_, though Anders did attempt to drag him into it a few times. His lack of response soon made him uninteresting to the mage however, and he was left to his own toughts. Just as well, for he had quite a few to sort through.

The past few days have been… weird, and that was the understatement of the Age. Had someone asked him a week ago what is the least likely company he could imagine himself being in, _this_ would still be not it. Same for the least likely places he tought he'd find himself in. The Fade was just… Well, let's just say he wouldn't want to go through it twice. And then there was the Blackmarsh itself…

He remembered how, as a boy, he had dreamed about going there and setting things right. Foolish little boy dreams… Had he really been a little boy with dreams once? Even he found it hard to believe that nowdays. And yet, the realization dawned on him earlier in the day, he just _did_, in fact, go to the Blackmarsh and had set things right. He hoped that the little boy from the past was smiling at that, for he was finding it hard to do so.

For he had not went there alone, nor by his own plans. The Blackmarsh has been the haunted forbidden for as long as he had remembered and most everyone ever did about it was to avoid it. Young bucks, noble or commoner, sometimes going close to it on a dare and that was it. Until three complete strangers arrived and decided to charge right in, warnings be damned. True, they had not set out with the specific goal of 'fixing things' in mind, but that did not change the fact that they had acomplished something no one before dared try. A mad dwarf, annoying mage and the elf he had come to Ferelden to kill. The Wardens. Three strangers, and one pariah tagging along behind, feeling more of a stranger in his own home than three of them combined.

It was bizzare. And not just a little annoying. Also, alarming. He never had close encounters with the Darkspawn before - in fact, his whole experience with them had been crammed into these past couple of days. And yet even he could tell there was something strange about these ones, even if he hadn't spent the time listening to the Wardens - Oghren and the elf, to be precise - tossing around exclamations and half-finished sentiments about it.

XXX

The next day found Nathaniel pensive, his unease growing and footsteps slowing the closer they got to the Vigil.

_There is nothing left for you here…_

But where else would he go? Where else _could_ he be, if not here? Back to the Free Marches was no longer an option, not with these new, talking, planning… _intelligent_ Darkspawn prowling around the Arling.

And there was only one group who knew, _really_ knew how to fight them.

Long before high walls of the Vigil came into view, Nathaniel had already decided where he truly wanted to be and what he intended to do. By the time they approached the gates, he also knew what he needed to do to acomplish it.


	12. Welcome To The Fold

**A/N****: Wrote myself in a corner with the previous version; shamelessly backpedaling out of it because life is easier that way. No harm done: this isn't a serious project, merely a writing itch that I am self-indulgently scratching while it lasts. First few paragraphs identical to the scraped version; a completely different turn of events later on. Unedited.**

XXX

**Welcome To The Fold**

_The Warden-Commander locks horns with Nathaniel Howe and loses which comes as a surprise to precisely no one. _

XXX

The glances thrown his way did not feel pleasant, but Nathaniel had steeled himself for that well beforehand. They were merely curious - an unknown quantity walking into the Keep with the Wardens; most people here did not know his face. It was in that that most of the unpleasantness originated: he was a stranger in his own home.

It was still more pleasant than what he was about to do.

He didn't deny the growing unease tying a knot in his gut, the apprehension that grew as they neared the gates. Emotional part aside, practicality called his attention. It was a matter of time, minutes perhaps, before Varel would come out to greet them. He would recognize him on sight. Perhaps seeing him come in with the Commander - alive, well, and grumpy as ever - would make Varel hold his identity a secret. Perhaps not. He would certainly demand some explanations and Nathaniel was not in the mood to provide.

And there were others to consider, too: the guard captain would likely be there, maybe that boy guard from the cells, and who knows who else. They'd all demand answers on the spot and again, Nathaniel was not in the mood to provide.

He wanted to do what he had planned quickly then, before anyone had a chance to derail him. He forced himself to pick up his pace, noticing that he had fallen too far behind. He gave it an amused snort: his mind was set, but his feet were still voting against.

He reached the group just as they were about to pass beneath the arc, soldiers posted on both sides already crying out the greetings. Past Anders and onto the side unoccupied by Oghren, he fell into step beside the elf, for the first time noticing that the top of her head barely reached his own shoulder.

"A word with you?"

She looked at him sideways in askance and stopped.

"Go on," she nodded to Anders and Oghren and he waited until both obliged, tossing curious glances over their shoulders as they passed them by.

"_You_" he had said, because nothing else could roll off his tongue. She had been called "Hero" by many but being addressed so was stupid. Coming from him, it would be nothing but sarcastic. "Warden" was too generic as there were already two more present and "Arlessa" was out of the question. He had heard her last name once but had forgotten it since; he found himself oddly bemused that he had never learned her first.

"Commander" seemed to be what everyone took to calling her, but he couldn't get the title past his lips, not yet. He'd have to get over that soon. He wasn't sure he could.

"Well?"

He could feel himself from a week ago staring at his present self with incredulity.

"I wish to become a Grey Warden."

"WHAT?!"

Startled guards jumped to attention, hands dropping to their swords.

"Are you fucking nuts!?"

Nathaniel frowned, stiffening, taken aback by the reaction more than he was willing to let on. "Is my request that surprising?" It was, considering. He had expected surprise. Suspicion as well. Anger, likely as not, for it was a given. He had not counted on this much though, did not expect to be glared at with open hostility.

"No."

For a moment he tought it was an answer and then realized the negative growled through clenched teeth was a rejection. His own jaw clenched in response.

"So, you are refusing me?"

"Fuck yes!" she hissed and with a sharp turn started away.

It took Nathaniel a second to move, but he was quick and his strides longer than hers. It took him one and a half to intercept and block her path.

"No."

His voice dropped low, tone stern and final. He was asking to join an Order he had little love or respect for because it was the only thing he could do and still be able to look himself in the mirror again. Already wasting energy fighting his own disdain for the course of action the circumstances had forced him to take, he would not be snubbed by one brat's childish antics.

She moved to push past him or straight through him, either would do for her fine, but he wouldn't let her. He ignored the uncertain movements of the guards behind in favour of pressing his point home.

"You were sent here to rebuild, yet your Order stands decimated. You are only three-"

"Four," she interrupted. He ignored it. Justice did not count.

"-and an entire host of Darkspawn to stand against." If she was to be the Commander that everyone addressed, then she would have to start acting like one. "You are in no position to refuse..."

Her glare was pure daggers and his respect nonexistant. He crossed his arms and met her dagger for dagger, hers crackling with fury, his focused and icy.

"…_Commander_." He finally got the word past his tongue.

Her anger grew, becoming palpable; a rage demon could not posses her because there would not be enough room for both. It graduated to fury, went straight past livid and reached wrath in the span of a few hard breaths and no words coming out for there were too many and all wanting out at once.

Nathaniel's glare was hard but impassive. He would be seeing this a lot from now on, he suspected, and he had to trust himself not to react. He'd need to learn how to ignore and there was no time like the present to start.

He expected another challenge and he was prepared for it. Instead, her wrath peaked without exploding. "You have _no_ idea what you're asking for."

The gate guards almost reached them and Nathaniel spared a glance their way, to gauge the distance and the possible reactions as much as to buy a second in which to decide how to respond. Armoured boots clanged on the cobblestones. Three steps… Two…

"Why don't you tell me, then?"

"Commander? Is everything all right?" The first guard eyed Nathaniel with suspicion, hand ready to draw. The second one kept half a step back and moving slightly on the side into a flanking position. Nathaniel tensed but knew better than to move. The elf seemed perfectly oblivious to the guards and their inquiries, her eyes never leaving Nathaniel's own.

"Commander?" the same guard asked again, suspicion giving way to puzzlement.

Only then did she notice his presence. "What?!" she snapped irritably.

"Is…" The man looked from her to Nathaniel and back, unsure what to make of things. "Is everything all right, Commander?"

"Peachy." The guard blinked. "Go. Away."

The guard was still uncertain, but his training prevailed. "I.. of course, Commander. My appologies." He nodded a salute and retreated, his companion following suit. The elf stared at them a moment longer, expression blank.

"They've no problem with me fighting horde of Darkspawn, but they'll jump to protect me from _one man_?" She shook her head in disbelief. "Where's the sense in _that_?"

She turned back to him and for a moment Nathaniel wondered if he was expected to provide an answer. He didn't have one, but it wouldn't have mattered even if he had for her next question sent him into a momentary mental stumble.

"Is this about staying in the Keep? Because if it is, go ahead and stay. You don't have to fucking kill yourself for it."

For a moment he was rendered speachless: he was standing in front of his father's murderer being given permission to enter his own home. That was… Maker, if it weren't so poignant it would have been ridiculous! It was surely downright bizarre. He laughed a bitter one:

"I can still get in and out of Vigil without your permission. Or knowledge for that matter."

"Well, if you're still hung up on trying to kill me I guess I'd find out eventually."

"No," he said flatly, "You wouldn't. But that's beside the point. Are we going to waste a whole day on pointless banter? If there is something I should know before joining the Order than say it. If there is a test one must pass, then tell me what it is and I'll do it. But let us be at it already."

He was aware of the noises of everyday goings on of the Keep around them. the guards may have returned to their posts, but everyone else was growing curious by now. They were beginning to draw a crowd - exactly the kind of attention Nathaniel was hoping to avoid. But all the elf was doing was stare at him with an expression Nathaniel couldn't quite decipher.

And sure enough, not a moment later Varel appeared on the Keep side of the gate, likely wondering what took the Commander so long to show up. And it didn't take him three full steps before he recognized the man the Commander was standing with.

"Howe!" He shouted in surprise, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear it. It immediatelly alerted the guards all over again and several people closest to them looked up in astonishment. Nathaniel wondered if the day could possibly get any worse.

The Senechal sped through the archway, anger clearly etched on his face. "I tought I told you to-"

A raised hand stopped him mid-track and mid-sentence, the elf finally acknowledging his presence though her eyes never left Nathaniel for a moment.

"Come with me," she said at length and Nathaniel almost breathed a sigh of relief, if not at being granted his request than surely at being able to move away from having suddenly been made the center of everything-but-welcome attention.

"Commander-" Varel protested as she pushed past him, Nathaniel right at her heel and not making eye contact with anyone, especially the Senechal.

"Later," she growled at him and pushed on, clearing the courtyad in brisk strides, ignoring the large heavy doors that led to the main hall, heading instead for the few stone steps and a small landing that led to the side entrance to the Keep.

Nathaniel remained close, ignoring the unwanted attention he had acquired and it wasn't until they reached the landing that it occurred to him that she hadn't, in fact, given him an actual answer yet.

XXX

"So, there _is_ a test then?" he asked once they were inside and the thick door between him and all the glares that were burning holes in the back of his skull. The hallway was small, branching off in several directions not far off from where it opened to the courtyard, and dimly lit save for what light poured in from the few windows higher up on the wall.

"No." The elf paused in her tracks, though whether that had to do with his question or was she trying to decide which sorridor to take, Nathaniel couldn't say. "No, there isn't any test." She turned to face him and went on to answer his next qustion before he had a chance to ask. "And no, I have not said 'yes'."

He opened his mouth to protest but again, she cut him off.

"Look, Howe. I don't know what's going on in that head of yours and frankly, I don't really give a shit. I know you're not planning to kill me. I've had people go at me before and you're not even trying." She paused and considered. "For now, anyway. I'm good at turning target, even without the whole 'I killed your father' thing."

Huh. No arguments there.

"Either way... I like you well enough. You're quick with a blade, great with a bow and good to have in a pitch. Maker knows I could use someone like that around. If you can actually put up with me, that is. But you're asking to join the Wardens, so must be you already figured that you can, Waden or not. Now…" She took a breath and tried to decide how to proceed.

"I don't know what got into you all out of sudden, Howe. And I still don't give a shit. But whatever it is, trust me - it's not worth it. And I'm _not_ letting you do it, not until you first hear exactly what it is that you are asking for."

Nathaniel had to admit he was surprised. This must have been the longest he had heard her speak without snapping, not even once, though her entire body language spoke of a tight string just waiting to go 'twang'. Surprisingly mature, too, considering all he had seen thus far had been nothing but childish petulance with a violent sreak to match. And, he had to admit, she did have a point in that he should know what it really means to be a Warden before definitely deciding to become one. She was dealing fairly with him, and much more than she had to at that, considering she was dealing with a man who had previously made no secret of his desire to end her life.

"Very well." He spied a servant pass nearby and motioned for them to find some place more private to speak. "Lead the way."

XXX

Turns out that wasn't the brightest idea he had that day. They meandered through for a while, passing through the hallways both busy and not, and every time he tought he had figured out the direction they were headed the elf turned un unexpected corner and led them away from the spot. It was when she tried for the unused broom closet after narrowly failing to lead them to the privy that Nathaniel stopped her.

"You have no idea where you're going, do you?"

She looked around. "Not a clue."

"Maker…"

Nathaniel sighed and took the lead, the elf trailing behind him and claiming it's easier to find a way through werewolf-infested ruins than any human-built keep. Nathaniel mostly ignored her though he did wonder vaguely what ruins could she be talking about.

Eventually, he led them to the servant wing no longer in use and after some probing of the doors lined up on either side of the dusty corridor found one that was unlocked. They opened into a small room adorned with more dust and cobwebs in the corners, a bed, a chair, small night table and a dirty window that nonetheless admited enough light for them to make their way in without having to stumble in the dark. It wasn't much, for their intended purpose, it was more than enough.

The elf commandeered the chair as Nathaniel locked the door behind them, leaving him to either stand or take the bed. He opted to stand rather than risk raising a dustcloud big enough to choke them both and disturb whatever multylegged lifeforms took residence in the bed in the process, even if the elf did suggest he might want to sit down for this.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, straddled the chair more comfortably and leaned forward. "All right. Here's what becoming a Warden really means…"

And then she told him. Everything.

XXX

Nathaniel stood in silence, as he had been for a while now, still processing everything that he had just heard. There wasn't a lot to be said, but it sure was a lot to take in. The elf stayed silent too, after having said all she had to say and left him to digest things at his own pace. Maker alone knew he needed that right now.

The Darkspawn, the blood, the Taint… Now he understood why the Wardens kept most of of those things a tightly guarded secret. Few would consider joining the Order if they knew all that beforehand, and the Joining itself was clearly a blood magic ritual. The Chantry, for one, would not look kindly on that, and while it couldn't exactly demand the Order disbanded, for they were clearly needed, it would in all likeness demand it be put under the Chantry's direct supervision. And the Order would not be able to function under such restraints, even if it did get enough recruits. Which it surely wouldn't if the facts surroudning the Joining and its consequences were to become widely known.

And now he also understood why the elf was so insistent on refusing to allow him to Join before he had all the facts and why she was trying to disuade him from it in the first place. He wondered briefly if she were perhaps making things up, or at least exaggerating the worst parts of it but the bitterness with which she had spoken had been nothing if not sincere.

He stole a glance at her from where he was standing, leaning back against the windowsill, and found he was watching her in a new light. Still not a favorable one, for she was still the same reckless bundle of violence and anger that she was half an hour ago, but now he understood where at least a part of that behaviour was coming from. And whatever else she was - his father's murderer still being the most prominent one - she nonetheless wasn't ready to allow him to commit suicide without first being made aware that that was what he would be doing, even if it meant revealing the secrets of her Order to an outsider who could just as easily walk away and reveal them to the world at large. Not that she appeared at all devoted or loyal to the Wardens to begin with, mind. Nathaniel could not fault the harsh logic that guided the Order's decision to keep this a secret but neither could he deny understanding the need to rebel against it and a small does of respect settled in where there was previously none.

Still... Things were what they were and no amount of ruminating would change them. He needed to focus on the practical aspects of the whole thing and then re-examine his decision based on those. He fell back into his toughts and only the slight rustling of Maker-knows-what under the bed occasionally interrupted the silence before he finally broke it himself.

"So, you are telling me that is it: a death sentence, one way or the other, and in return the ability to fight the Darkspawn more freely because you cannot get Tainted twice?" He shook his head, perplexed. "Surely, there must be something more to it than just that."

The elf looked up. "Well… only a Grey Warden can kill an Archdemon dead. But you're a bit late for that particular party." She tilted her head, considering the point further. "And it wasn't that great a party either. You can trust me on that."

Nathaniel let out a breath. "And that is all?"

"Pretty much, yes." He didn't seem entirely convinced though, so after a while she expanded on the answer:

"There… are certain things you _could_ consider benefits, but compared to the price?" She shook her head. "Not worth it."

"I would still hear them."

She sighed. "Very well. But keep in mind, half of it is just me making best guesses. You get better at seeing in the dark, that much I noticed. And… " She looked like she was about to say something else but changed her mind halfway through. "Look. There is still much about the Taint that we don't know, all right? And I don't mean just me, I mean Wardens in general. And if some of them _do_ know more, well… Either they're keeping it close to the chest or they're just doing guesswork, same as me."

"Then tell me what you think you know."

She ran a hand through her hair, trying to figure out how to begin. "The Darkspawn don't eat or drink. The Taint sustains them. Now I'm not sure if this is just me or is it like that for everyone, but over time I found I can… Well, tax myself more than I should really be able to. You know? A bit more endurant where I should just lose strenght and collapse? Or, I dunno, go on without sleep for longer. Or food. Sometimes be more… focused and such. But I've been on the roads non-stop for over a year and most of it was fighting so it could be I just got more used to it regardless of the Taint," she finished with a shrug. "I'm telling you Nathaniel - It's just not worth it."

"I see." His next words came as a complete surprise, as he knew they would. But he had made up his mind already. "I still wish to try."

"What?!" She nearly jumped off the chair. "Why? I mean how can you-"

"Wait," he stopped her before a torrent of words could come pouring out of her mouth. She already went from calm to bristling in a span of a second and he needed to get his point across before she surrounded herself with walls of anger again.

"Listen to me. You have told me the facts and I… am grateful for that. I truly am. But my reasons haven't changed even if the stakes turned out to be higher than I had originally assumed."

Bristle, bristle, twitch. He had to both hurry _and_ be careful if he wanted to get through.

"My… reasons are my own." He still wasn't ready to share his most private toughts with anyone just yet though, least alone her. "But you said yourself that you don't care for them anyway, so it shouldn't matter what they are."

He pushed away from the window and looked her in the eye. "I have made my decision," he said quietly. "You gave me a chance to make an informed one. I am not disregarding everything you told me, I just…" He stopped, uncertain what to say next, or how. "This means enough to me, enough to still want to try. You may think that nothing is worth that sacrifise but allow others to feel otherwise, whether you agree with them or not. I…"

He never intended to plead, but the look of disbelief and anger on her face was almost painful to observe and Nathaniel dropped his guard.

"Please. I want this, and you are the only one here who can give me that chance. So please - Let me try."

/

She still couldn't believe what she was hearing and Maker damn her (as if he already hadn't) if she had any idea what to do right then and there. What would Morrigan say? She could practically hear her voice in the back of her skull. "_Well, let him. If the fool truly wants to try, why would you object? If he survives you will gain a fine warrior to fight at your side. And if he doesn't, his life was his to waste. So let him_."

She shook her head and stood up. "You are a fool, Howe. And probably a dead one, too. But… If you want to kill yourself in a most horrible way you can think of, who am I to stand in your way?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Thank you."

She moved to the door and unlocked it. "Come on. Let's find Varel and have him prepare the Joining."

Nathaniel blinked. "He knows ?"

"And fuck me if I know why," she said, heading out into the hallway. "Now come get us out of here 'cause I still have no idea where I am. And let's get this over with already; _you_ are likely dead before nightfall but _I_ won't be, and I want to make it in time for dinner."

XXX

He came to on the cold stone floor of the Joining chamber just long enough to hear a quiet: "You are _such_ a damn fool, Howe."

He managed a faint grin before he drifted off again.

"But at least I'm alive to hear it."


	13. Impromptu Redecorations

**A/N****: Random silliness, because I felt like it.**

XXX

**Impromptu Redecorations**

_Ceallers shoud store wine, not Darkspawn. Or overly excitable mages for that matter._

XXX

A tremor shook the stone walls, reverberating through the floor and rattling a long wooden bench, piles of random debris scattered in the corners and the moldy, empty barrels lining the far end of the room. The sound of a loud crash followed by more muffled tumbling of something large and heavy came on its trail.

Down the stone stairs at the furthest end of the cellar stood old and heavy wooden door, rusty padlock recently forced open and now stading slightly ajar. A small wisp of smoke floated through the opening, the smell of scorched wood seeping through. Though the space behind the door was mostly dark, tiny flickering could be made out originating from somewhere further inside.

The noise slowly died down, followed by brief stretch of silence. Muffled grunting was the first thing that broke it. Eventually, a voice sounded out from the dark:

"Anders?"

There was some shuffling and then a second voice joined the first:

"Uuuum… Yes, Commander?"

"Remember when I said 'we could use some light here' ?" The first voice asked, sounding ominously cheerful.

"I… seem to recall something to that effect, yes." The second voice came again, with the distinct overtones of someone incospicuously backing away.

More grunting sounded in the background, growing louder. A small 'thud/crash' of something medium-sized hiting the floor and rolling away could be heard a moment later.

"And then when later on I said 'Oh, look! It seems like there's something behind this rack.' You remember that too?"

"I may have heard you say something along those lines."

More grunting. Another, louder crash this time.

"And then do you remember when afterwards I also said 'Hmmm… if we could somehow move just these few barrels out of the way, we could squeeze through and see what's on the other side'? " the first voice came again, in the tones of someone discussing an amusing but rather insignificant mishap that happened long ago and to someone else.

The second voice seemed to consider this for a moment. "Ummm… No. No, can't say I remember that part at all. If you'll recall, that was when that Darkspawn attacked me from behind so pardon me if I wasn't exactly paying attention to your observations right at that moment."

"Ah. Right." The first voice appeared taken aback a bit. But only a very little bit. "But you do remember afterwards, _after I scraped that Darkspawn off your back_, when I mentioned the barrels again and you said it would take too long to move them, right?"

The second voice sounded a tiny bit uncomfortable. "Um. Yes. I remember that part."

The grunting turned to grumbling and after another sound 'thud' begun graduating towards cursing.

"And then you said 'Oh, but it's not a problem - I can clear the way.' and I said 'Oh, okay - Go ahead and clear the way then.' "

"Uh-uh…?" The second voice had the distinct undertones of getting ready to beat a hasty retreat any moment now.

"Well… See… " the first voice said sweetly, "When I said to clear the way, Anders…

…I DID NOT MEAN FOR YOU TO FUCKING BLOW US UP!"

Next moment, the background grunting erupted into a full-blown curse. The sound of something heavy and hard hurtling through the air could be heard, followed by a muffled "Ow!" as it connected with something soft and not happy to meet it. The sound of someone scrambling for cover was heard next, then a subdued yelp, more shuffling, another "Ow" and then it all exploded into one huge, cacophonous commotion

"I'd like to point out before you kill me that the way _is _now, in fact, clear- No, Oghren, don't- Ow!"

/

Nathaniel paused with his hand on the door and took a deep, steadying breath before he swung them open, took a good, long look around the room and then addressed the suddenly motionless party inside: "You know, there is a perfectly good way around that wall from a side corridor back over there."


	14. Of Ghouls And Men

**A/N****: Important moments or merely pointless filler? Choose for yourselves. It asked to be written and so I obliged. 'Nuff said. Slightly edited this time, but still raw works overall.**

XXX

**Of Ghouls And Men**

_Meeting your first ghoul is always a shocker which the Warden-Commander could have told them but didn't. Anders and Nathaniel took it harder then each was willing to admit. Oghren was just happy there were no crazy ex-wives involved this time._

XXX

"Anders, do you have a sleep spell?"

The elf's voice was quiet and Anders' face was grim; a rare expression and an even rarer display of seriousness on his part, but what they were looking at merited nothing but.

Clearing the cellar of the few remaining Darkspawn stragglers had been easy, especially after Howe joined the party and took the lead. As it turned out, the cellar was no longer in regular use and hand't been since quite a while. Still, Howe knew the passages well enough, remembering them from the time he and his siblings snuck down there to play despite being strictly forbidden from doing so. How did Anders manage to get that out of him remained a mystery, especially to Howe, though the mage's smug little smile that Oghren caught later on suggested there was more reason behind Anders' casual prodding then any one of them knew.

Vigil Keep was built on top of old Avvar ruins and the cellar was no exception. There were blocked-off corridors deeper below the storage chambers that eventually led them into the crypts. When they descended into the cellar early in the afternoon, they tought they'd merely check for possible Darkspawn that came in during the attack. But it was growing increasingly obvious that the Darkspawn didn't come _in_ but rather _out_ of the cellar.

What came _in_ were actually people - those few servants and keep locals who fled down there seeking safety but finding none. All of them died at Darkspawn hands, os so the party tought until they reached a platform-like ledge behind the crypts overlooking a cavernous chamber below. Down in the darkness, hunched shapes moved about between the rocks and more scattered corpses on the floor. Half a dozen, perhaps more.

The elf creeped to the edge of the platform to get a better look at what was going on below, leaving Oghren behind to explain to Nathaniel what ghouls are. Anders already knew. The Taint was death, and an excruciating one at that. Most people were lucky, though, and succumbed to it in a matter of minutes, hours, perhaps a day. The shapes moving down below were the unlucky ones, and he understood immediatelly what the Commander was suggesting.

He nodded and moved closer to the ledge. "I could cover them all. But I'm out of range. I'd need to get closer."

"How close?"

Anders squinted into the gloom and pointed towards the steep climb to their right, a damp, narrow portrusion in the wall with patches of lichen and fungy splattered in irregular patterns. "At least to that larger stone over there. And honestly Commander, I don't think I can make it without taking a fast slide all the way down."

She considered the climb for a while. She could navigate it sure enough. Howe could, too, if she were any judge and she knew Oghren was far more sure-footed than one would think at a first glance. She looked back at Anders. "You'd better not. We'll have to go down there either way." She pulled back and motioned for Anders to follow. They rejoined Oghren and Nathaniel at the entrance to the crypts and the elf exchanged a knowing glance with the dwarf.

"Deep Roads, Commander. Right beyond that cave-in over there. Can feel the Darkspawn crawling about already."

The elf gave him a nod. Anders gave him a glare. "You can't be sensing them. Not from way over here." Still, he couldn't disregard the growing thrumming in the back of his skull. He tought it was just a headache from all this mold. And the explosion. More accurately, from the chunk of a wine casket Oghren flung into his face right after.

Nathaniel looked at each of them in turn, frowning. "I am not sensing anything."

"Oh, lucky you. Enjoy it while it lasts," Anders grumped.

"You can't, yet," the elf explained. "It takes a while to kick in, and you only Joined last night." She still wasn't happy about that.

Oghren grinned. "You don't need special Warden sense to tell you there's Darkspawn down there, boys. It's the Deep Roads! What do you expect's down there? Queen of Antiva having a bathrobe party?"

"Well, that would be a more pleasant reason to go down there. Even better if it's _without_ the bathrobes."

"Hehe. You do have a point there, mage."

The elf chuckled but lost her mirth quick as it came in a show of seriousness not typical for her usual self. "Bathrobes or not, we're going down there. And if we really do find the Queen of Antiva, I'm buying drinks for all next tavern. But first," she motioned for Anders and Howe to follow. "Sorry Oghren - you're too loud."

Ogren made a show of huffing but remained behind. The three moved to the ledge again and the elf scanned the path downwards once more.

"I'll go scout ahead, see if I can spot any more further down. You take him when I give you the go."

Nathaniel looked at the trecherous footing and nodded. He was both larger and stronger than the elf; If Anders slipped, he could hold him or pull him back. Without any more words, the elf slid into the shadows and went off.

XXX

It was grim work, killing the ghouls. It was also mercy. Anders' spell managed to catch them all; by the time he and Howe reached the bottom of the cavern, Oghren trailing further behind, the elf had already begun picking them off. Crouch, stab, retract, up, crouch, stab, retract, blade slick with blood and finding hearts with swift precision. And no pain. Wordlessly, Nathaniel pulled out his own blade and joined the task. Anders lingered behind.

If asked, he would say he did not want to get his robes dirty. In truth, he simply couldn't do it. He leaned his back against the wall and tried not to look in that direction, doing his best to ignore the sickly sounds the blades made as they came sliding out of stilled chests. He never tought he'd welcome a headache, but the growing throbbing within his skull helped him ignore it better. Even Oghren made no comments when he finally made his way down, merely passed Anders by and went to the cave-in on the cave's other end.

With Anders not looking, Oghren inspecting the huge pile of collapsed stones and the elf presoccupied with her task, no one noticed when Nathaniel stopped in his. It wasn't until Anders went to join Oghren and the elf finished off the last ghoul she found that she spotted Nathaniel crouching over a prone form, dagger in hand but staying perfectly still.

At first, she made no sense of what she saw but then an eerily familiar feeling scraped at her entrails. _Dammit! It's someone he knows._ And she had no idea what to do. Offer to do it for him? Oh, but that would go down so well, wouldn't it? She already planted a blade into his father - he'd be bloody trilled to have her stab another one he knew. The spell would wear off soon; should she tell him to just do it? It would probably piss im off, but angry made this sort of thing easier to do. Well, it did for her - she had no clue about him. Shit.

In the end, she did nothing. He saw her watching him, raised his eyes, but there was nothing she could see in them at all. She stood there for another moment, uncertain, and when no grand epiphanies hit her broke off eye contact and walked away without a word.

She joined Oghren and Anders at the cave-in. Large boulders formed the base with other, slightly smaller stones piled up on top. There were several places where the space between the rocks was large enough for an average-sized person to push through and on the far end, an opening big enough for several.

"Must be how they came in," Oghren mused and tapped the rocks with his axe. "Right from the Deep Roads."

Anders looked at her with a "must we?" experession. She gave him a sympathetic shrug. "'Fraid so." She eyed the openings somewhat suspiciously. "Will it hold?"

Oghren nodded. "It'll hold. Eh... Where's the stoic?"

"Wrapping up. I'll go snoop ahead. Once we hit below, you take the lead."

Oghren barked out a laugh. "Sure thing, Commander. Last time we were in Deep Roads together I tought you'd lead us straight to Antiva."

Anders scrounged up his nose. "What is it with you and Antiva today?"

"Heh. It's not me you should be asking about Antiva, robes boy. It's the Commander. She knows _all_ about Antiva. Kept us up all night with that assassin of hers… heh."

Anders' eyebrows rose, mouth quirked. "Really, Commander? "

The elf purred. "Oh, yes. You wouldn't believe the things Zev could do in bed…"

"Good you managed to stop long enough to kill the Archdemon," Oghren teased.

"Indeed," she grinned, and dissapeared through the crack.


	15. Fallout

**A/N****: None today, so dig right in.**

XXX

**Fallout**

_Varel never tought he'd say it, but could he please have the Orlesians back? He could trade them an elf in return… if he knew where she was. Or other Wardens for that matter._

XXX

Anders had left. As soon as they had returned from the ill-fated cellar-expedition-turned-Deep-Roads-jaunt, he marched into his room, crammed his backpack full and took off. Oghren made straight for the kitchens, comandeered a barrel and started drinking. No one dared approach him within armsreach. Nathaniel emerged pale and silent as a grave, and immediately made himself scarce. The elf turned up last, so livid she was crackling, grabbed her mabari and stormed off in directions unknown. In short, the Deep Roads were a disaster and Varel didn't have a first clue why. But he did have a pretty good guess as to who was to blame.

"I'm afraid our Wardens are falling apart, Mistress Woolsey."

The older woman blew the steam off the top of her tea mug and took a cautious sip. "And I'm afraid they already have, Senechal. Oh, this tea is good."

Varel smiled a little, privately wondering how could the lady drink her tea so hot. He was still cradling his own mug and his fingers were almost blistering. The fire crackled softly, bathing his office in a soft glow and he added another log to it. Daylight was waning fast so he turend on the oil lamp on his desk. He didn't close the window just yet though: he himself could stand a bit more warmth, but Mistress Woolsey was used to colder climates and appreciated the cold evening breeze.

"What are we to do?" he asked as he put the poker back in its place and returned to his seat.

The woman contemplated the question for a while, her gaze meandering over the tapestry adorning the western wall of the office. This one in particular depicted a forest trail, thorns and bushes intertwined in shades of yellow and green with the broad leaves of a deeper green canopy above them. Varel always liked that one.

"Are those animal heads up there?"

Varel did not hide his surprise. "You noticed?" If one knew how to look for them, there were indeed various animal head shapes cleverly hidden within the pattern. He never tought anyone but him ever caught on to that.

The woman chuckled, satisfied. "Of course I noticed. I have an eye for detail. And as for your question, Senechal, I don't believe that we _can_ do anything righ now."

"Right at this moment? No. Of course not. But if things are allowed to progress in this fashion…" He left it hanging. "The men are edgy. They have still to recover from the Darkspawn attack, and the new Commander… Well, let us just say her behaviour tends to leave people either confused or livid. Ususally latter and usually in under three minutes."

Woolsey chuckled. "Yes. I know exactly what you mean. I, myself, am not exactly livid, but I will admit to being a bit ticked off at her ordering what militia we have to patrol the farmlands instead of securing the trade routes as I had hoped."

"And the nobles would likely have her secure the city instead." He allowed himself a wry little grin. "Especially will have to arrange the ceremony soon. I believe the Amaranthine's upper class is growing rather impatient to see which one of them gets to sink their hooks into their new Arlessa and manipulate the ignorant little commoner, an _elf_ at that, into dancing to their strings. They're in for a rather nasty surprise on that front, I'd wager."

They both shared a chuckle at that, but then Varel's expression turned serious again. "I still don't kow what happened today, but Voldrik came to see me afterwards. He'll need to seal the breach and he says it can be done, but the surrounding tunnels have to be cleared first before he can lead his men in. That's a Wardens' job, and right now, we are practically down to none."

Woolsey frowned and took another sip. "Yes. That _is_ most unfortunate. I may have to bring all this to the Head Warden's attention soon."

Varel observed her while she took another contemplative sip of her tea. His own mug was still steaming untouched. "But you are reluctant to do so."

"You are as aware of the political backdrop as I am, Senechal. And you'll have more luck spotting the heraldic bear in the lower left corner then even begin to untangle the knots in that ball of yarn."

Varel glanced back at the tapestry, impresed. It took him weeks before he had found the bear. Woolsey put her mug on the desk and brought her fingers together.

"Still, we do have a few avenues we might explore…"

XXX

Rescue came from the most unlikely source, in the form of Oghren early next morning. He barged into Senechal's office, ale mug in his hands and slightly swaying but surprisingly coherent.

"You want to know what happened yesterday? Here's the gist of it: those two blighters couldn't stand their heads buzzing full of Darkspawn; the runt snubbed them; they ganged up on her, she snapped, I snapped and then it all went nugwards." He crashed into a chair and leaned back with force. "No big deal. Don't get your panties in a twist. And don't go rattling stones behind the Commander's back, you and that paper-pushing numbers-counter. Don't give me that look. I'm drunk, not stupid."

He drained his mug. "Tempers run short, tempers snap. It happens. No one died, so story over. They'll come around, just give 'em some time. And don't go prodding - The Commander's a quick-to-boil kind, but she'll come through."

Varel rubbed his chin. "I wish I could share in your confidence right now."

"She _will_ come through!" Oghren smacked both fists onto the desk and glowered at the Senechal. "I watched that kid take on far worse than this and rip it to shreds."

Varel leaned back. Glowering Oghren was not something most people wanted in close proximity; Oghren's drunken breath this close was something most would not likely survive. "I'm afraid that 'rippping to shreds' is precicely what we _don't_ need right now, Oghren."

"Sure you do. There's Darkspawn in them tunnels that's just begging to be shredded right now." Oghren grinned. "Now, you tell that sniff, Garevel-whatshisname to give me a few men and I'll take 'em down myself. Have it cleared it by lunchtime. No, don't argue with me. Put some good armour on 'em and they'll be fine - most of those tunnels are cleared up already, just need to pick off a few stragglers, is all. What? What'd you think we were doing down there? Dancing? Just make sure the sods can tell which end of a blade is which and won't soil their panties 'cause a little bit of dark."

Varel considered this. He'd much prefer the Wardens did that but… He sighed. "All right, Oghren. We'll get you a team. And spare pairs of pants for them, just in case. Have you seen the Commander, by the way? Or the other two?"

"No. And I don't intend to go looking, either. And neither should you. Give 'em space, especially the Commander. You back her in a corner and she'll fight you; you gotta give her space to flail it off first, get the steam out through her ears - _then_ she'll listen." He headed for the door. "I'll go drink my breakfast now. Find me when they're ready."

Varel smiled faintly. "Perhaps we should make _you_ the Warden-Commander, Oghren."

"By the Stone, human! I love that kid, but not _that_ much!"

XXX

She was storming down the road with the mabari at her side, trailing dust. Maker's buttocks, what dickheads! Get a little Darkspawn in their heads and it's end of the damned world! What the fuck did they expect her to do? Wipe their noses? No, dammit, Anders _didn't_ ask for any of the Warden mess but dammit! Now that he's got it, he damn well fucking take it! He can take on Tamplars and demons but he can't handle _this_? As if! And Howe? Fucking Andraste's frigid fucking tighs, Howe _did_ ask for all this. He practically _begged_ her for it! But now that he's got it, he suddenly finds he can't deal with it? And blames _her_ for it? Well fuck him! If he can't handle it, he can fuck the hell off and back under whatever rock he crawled out from! And take the damned mage with him! Sodding shitheads, both of them!

Bandit watched her as he trotted beside her and whined. She's been at it since last evening and throughout the whole night and she was _still_ smelling of seething fury. Didn't even bring anything to eat with her, just took the road and shot off. Not even a treat for him. Sniff.

Amaranthine was within sight when the mabari planted himself in front of her with a resounding "Woof!" She stopped, looked at the city, the sea glimmering in the morning sun on the far side and then back at the dog again.

"I've no idea. Catch a ship to Antiva?"

Mabari sat down, ears flat. "Woof."

"Well I don't know?" She glanced back the way she came. "I am _not_ going back there again, that's for sure."

Bandit tilted his head. "Woof." It was not an approving 'woof', either.

"No. I'm _not_. I don't care if they burp or burn up there - I'm done!" She walked past the dog and headed for the city. Damn them all, but she was getting her ass out of here.

Well, as soon as she got some sleep first, anyway. She had the idea of making straight for the docks but once inside the gates, she changed her mind and entered the first inn she ran across, took a room, dropped face-first onto the bed and was sound asleep before she even hit the pillow.

Quietly, the mabari pulled a blanket over her.

XXX

It was close to lunchtime when Anders entered the city, paused at the gates and considered his options. He could just make out the looming roof of the Chantry to his right and immediatelly marked that as one direction he'll be staying clear off. Where would Namaya be, he pondered? If she were still in the city at all, ha is, which he honestly doubted was the case. Still, since he's already here, he might as well try. And if that doesn't pan out, he could go to the docks in the morning and see about boarding a ship. Where to? He had no idea. He heard Rivain was nice this time of the year…

XXX

Nathaniel was on the road before Oghren even left Varel's office that morning and had reached the city by nightfall. Normally, it took about a day to get to Amaranthine, but he was covering the distance like a wolf. Maker's breath, Delilah was alive! He almost didn't dare believe it as he sped on towards the city, forgotten shortcuts coming back to him as if it was only yesterday he had last walked them. His sister was alive…


	16. Nose To The Wind, Ear To The Ground…

**A/N****: More divergance from canon events because I like it better this way. Not saying it should've happened this way, but am saying it **_**might have**_**.**

XXX

**Nose To The Wind, Ear To The Ground…**

_In which each of the three estranged Wardens finds something, and not one finds what they were looking for._

XXX

The Merchant Quarter was busy, or at least it appeared to be. Various traders paddling their wares, the poorer ones shouting out as they pushed their carts of vegetables and grains, the slightly richer ones doing the same from their stalls. Further in, more stalls crowded the street, larger, sturdier and offering a bit more than bare necesseties for survival: potters and cobblers on one side, cloth and linen on the other. Further ahead, faint smell of fish and sea salt from the direction of the harbour, though the first fresh catch of the morning was sold all the way down at the docks.

Sudden wave of heat from the right, a semi-circular niche and the blacksmith working at the anvil as two apprentices showed off the wares - kitchen knives and sickles, scythes repaired, a large plow resting against the wall - veteran of many harvests and even more breakages. Very few horseshoes; too few.

Down towards the outskirts, the more ramshackle side of the city, more carts and less stalls. But too few wares. Even less people bying them. Refugees huddling in the corners, more beggars than before. Towards the outskirts but to the right as well, alongside the street leading to the upper end of the city - less carts, more stalls, actual shops: finer linen, silks, even a jewlery shop, though small, catering to the less unfortunate ones… windows dusty and a plant in a pot by the door sagging sadly, too worn-out to bother.

The centar square, more vibrant, more alive and with more people mulling about. But still not that many, still not enough. Too many despondent and too few coins to spend. A leather-worker, displaying the wares; closer to the guard houses, few armours on display, cured leather gloves and rough hide boots. Commotion, the chatter, activity… but behind it, more gloom than should underline the busy market cheer. More beggars then cut-purses. Not enough purses to cut.

And somewhere around here - Delilah.

Nathaniel passed the stalls, hand on his purse out of habit, looking left and right, hoping to spot a familiar face and at the same time hoping not to. Not here, not in… _this_.

It wasn't as he had remembered. It changed, of course it changed - it had to during eight years or so, but still… Once, the place would be bustling by now, even this early in the morning. Once, more guards would patrol the area, even more as the quarters stretched out towards the upper town. Once, they would have rounded up the beggars and shooed them off, away from the shops and main hubs of activity and into the backstreets even before the first stalls were set up. Now, there were hardly any guards at all.

Small children in dirty shirts ran about, shouting and splashing barefooted in the mud. No parents around. Once, the orphans would be tended to by the Chantry, smaller ones cared for and fed, older ones prepared for some craft or sent to the villages to help with the land. Once, when the lands were safe and enough militia patroled them.

Once, before the Blight. Before the war. When his father was the Arl…

…and when his sister had her own room in the Keep, her own maids and her own servants and guards to escort her to the better end of the market during the high summer days. And how she had enjoyed eluding them, all out of sudden ducking under a stall and then shooting like an arrow towards that sweets shop that he was sure was no longer there. He cheked anyway.

People passed him by, their chatter floating through his ears, an occasional shoulder or an elbow temporarily blocking his way. Some murmured pardon-mes, and more often not. Prices of food high and too little to go around. Too many refugees cluttering the streets. The smugglers, bold and growing bolder still. Pirates on the sea. Bandits on the roads. Merchant Guild in problems - caravans attacked in the woods, the trade routes no longer safe. And in more hushed tones, the Darkspawn, everywhere, like it was still a Blight. Praise the Maker the Wardens have arrived; but they were all decimated, haven't you heard? yes, two-three weeks ago; they say that the Vigil barely held out; didn't the new Arlessa bring more with her; why isn't she doing something? shush and watch your tongue, that's the hero of Ferelden you are speaking of, killed the Archdemon she did; may well be so, but what good did that bring us? what can one woman do? she's an elf, did you know? Maker help us…

His head was buzzing and he found his fists clecnhed. He pushed through the crowd in front of him with more force than he had to and made it for a side street to calm himself down. He should go back. Back to Vigil and do _something_.

…and bring Delilah back with him.

His eyes went back to the square, surveying the hussle and the despodence curling down beneath. She was here somewhere, though he still didn't know where. Samuel had said she had married some merchant? The mere tought of it made his jaw clench and heart constrict. Forced to flee her home, disgraced daughter of a disgraced, _murdered_ Arl, running for her life and reduced to living in _this_.

He had to find her.

But he wasn't sure how. Steadying his breath, he stepped into the market again, walking more slowly, observing with more care. Ask, yes, but what questions? Once, everybody would know her, by name if not on sight. Now? Perhaps she changed her name? She would have, when she married… He stopped in his tracks, someone bumping into him from behind with a curse. Maker! She wouldn't, would she? No, no, that couldn't be right. Delilah was smart. Surely, she'd drop her last name if she were fleeing - the name of Howe was no longer welcome in these lands. But she wouldn't have married just because of that.

Again his fists clenched as the only logical conclusion presented itself. No, she wouldn't have to marry just to change her last name. Delilah was smart, but she wasn't resourceful; not in the same way he was. He had skills, he had training, experience; he had seen the rougher side of life, way before all this. Delilah hadn't. She had no resources, but she had to live, somehow; she'd need protection, some measure of security and… Maker! His sister had married so she could survive…

His first impulse was to rush right in, and start grabbing people by their necks until one of them tells him where she was. Yet he curbed it, aware that the sight of a wild-eyed madman assauling people in the market would draw quick attention from the guard, what little of them were there. He had to remain calm.

Questions, then. Samuel told him very little, so he had to be smart. A merchant, recently wed. No, he did not know what trade. Lovely grey-eyed girl - Delilah took after their mother - dark hair, mid-twenties? No, no, not a jealous former lover, just an old friend recently come to the city… Where from? Denerim. Does it matter? Heard she was here, just want to say hello… No? Too bad. Know anyone who might know more? Ah well, thank you anyway, will try his luck elsewhere…

XXX

Anders came to, his head lulling and his mana completely drained. His mouth was full of dried blood and he caughed, trying to clear his throat. His feet dragged on the cobblestones, arms tied tightly behind his back, a templar at each shoulder, roughly hoisting him along. Well now, wasn't this familiar?

Alerted by his cough Rylock turned around and gave him a tight-lipped smile. The rest of the templars stopped as well. He could tell she was still livid, but couldn't help himself.

"You missed me so much? I am truly touched."

"Anders…" she nearly purred, the same tight-lipped smile still on her lips. He knew having him helpless was her kink.

She grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. Still dazed, he realized his nose wasn't actually broken. Why wasn't his nose broken? It should have been. Must be he has a stubborn nose.

He licked his cracked lips and gave the templar a smile. "Though I must say I did not expect this much company."

He looked at the templars to the left and right of him. Still in the city, but already close to the gates. Not the same gate through which he had entered the city yesterday; this one was smaller. The few people in the street gave wide berth to the templars and their captive. So… no help there, then. Ah well…

"I was hoping it would be just you and me, you know. Like the old times? Of course, if you realized that I am too much for you…" he went on, equal parts innuendo and provocation. Well, he could hardly get into more trouble than he was already in, yes?

"Ugh!" Or maybe he could, a tought passed his mind as his vision suddenly blurred. His first impulse was to curl up - an approved reaction to having a gauntleted fist rammed into the stomach - but his feet were still dragging behind him, templars still holding him under each arm and Rylock still had a fistfull of his hair.

"Now there, Rylock," he gasped, "Was that really necessary?"

The templar lowered her head until it was nearly on level with his own. "Necessary? Probably not. Highly satisfying? Very much so."

She still held that little smirk of hers, triumphant and angry all at once. And also a tiny bit vicious. Or at least Anders hoped it was _tiny_.

"That's me - Always aim to please."

He matched her smile for smile, though his stomach was a blaze of pain and his chest working short, choppy gasps. He wasn't entirely certain if he had a cracked rib before but he definitely had one now.

Rylock let out a short chuckle and loosened her grip a bit though she still didn't let go. "You really don't know when to shut up, Anders. I wonder if you even know how to."

No. He probably didn't. "You wouldn't love me nearly as much if I did."

She considered it for a moment. Was it his still unfocused vision or did she really look amused? For a second he tought she would strike him again but… no. Not her. He'd have to work harder than that to annoy her to that level. Good old Rylock - he could always count on her not to dissapoint.

She lowered her voice and leaned even further in. It was actually rather intimate. "Believe me, Anders - 'love' is the last feeling I harbor for you."

She finally let go of his hair and motioned for her templars to start moving again. His head slumped and his shoulder got in serious danger of getting dislocated as the templar to his right yanked him way harder than he had to - he must be a complete rookie, you don't templarhandle mages like that, we're delicate - and he still couldn't resist.

"Truly, Rylock?" He sounded heartbroken. "And I was trying so hard, too."

The templar let out another chuckle, though she didn't stop this time. "And I assure you, mage, that your efforts have not gone unnoticed," she said as her templars dragged him along, out through the small gate and onto the road. "Nor will they go unappreciated. After all, hard work and devotion must be rewarded."

Oh…? Well… that didn't sound good.

XXX

She stalked the city, disheveled and in foul mood. Not as foul as yesterday, but it was only a matter of time. It always was, with her. She was actually just waiting for it - the slightest provocation to set her off. Sadly, none came; not yet anyway. Perhaps it was that the populace was slightly more used to the sight of armed people in their midst, what with the war and the Blight over barely more than two months ago, or perhaps it was he sight of a huge mabari happily panting close to her side; the roughest parts of the whole mess never reached this far to the north, but apparently, it reached north enough for no one to think too much of it. Even if it was an elf. She'd been given a few odd loks, but that was all. Enough to get her slowly boiling again, but not enough to actually snap. Yet.

Eventually, she made her way down to the docks. Not as set on Antiva as she was last night, stubbornness still demanded she checked out the boats. She never got as far as that, though.

She rounded a dirty corner overlooking the harbor below and the slums over to the far right, when she spotted a Vhenadahl. Just the tip of it, but in this part of the city, it couldn't have been anything but that. A memory suddenly knocked into her like a ram.

This was where her mother came from.

Why didn't she remember it sooner? She'd been here for what… close to three weeks by now? Even more? She knew, _of course_ she knew, in that way that people know that the sky is blue and water is wet but never really _thought _about it. Probably, she slowly came to admit as she neared the walled-off slums, she didn't _want_ to think about it. It's been more than ten years since she had died and nearly as long since she put it behind her: children bounce back quickly, after all. But now that she was here…

Her legs took here there faster than she tought and soon, she was standing in front of the wall - not as high as the Denerim one, but still high enough - silent, and not sure what to do now or why she came at all.

She stood there for a while, palm pressed against the wall and mulled it over. Why would she go in? And what did she hope to find? Someone who still remembered her? Their hahren perhaps? Provided it was someone old enough, that is. Her stomach lurched, as she remembered Valendrian and then the whole incident came back to her in a flash. Except it wasn't an incident - it was planned. And Arl Howe was the one who had planned it… and he was still the Arl of Amarnathine back then, too…

She let out a sharp breath and smacked the wall with an outstretched palm once before she gritted her teeth and went inside. Dammit. She had to find out.

/

She left half an hour later, her mind in complete turmoil and seething with fury. Of course he would do it! Why did she ever think he would not?! And this time with the Alienage so close to the docks it was practically leaning on the backsides of the warehouses, it was even easier to pull off! Especially with the smugglers around. Not the fake blight plague this time - too far north for that - but something exotic and Rivaini; brought in by all the ships or some such nonesense. Slightly different story, same blasted shit. And no blight-damend Warden to stop it this time.

She did not feel obliged or even guilty, not as such. Dammit, she _hated_ the Alienage and it's habitaul, _maddening_ complacency. Apperantly, that was a trend across all of them. She didn't care, but in infuriated her all the same.

Unlike those that were still left. Far fewer than in Denerim. Some suspicion, soon drowned down in the day-to-day wondering of where, and when, will the next plate of food come from. Mostly from that brothel they mentioned, the one ran by some dwarf, deeper in the city. She smirked and spat. The shem may despise the elves but at the end of the day, they were all hungry for some sweet elvish ass. If he were here right now she was sure Zevran would have laughed his off.

She stormed away from the Alienage, her strides so quick Bandit had to step up the pace to keep up.

She hadn't told them who she was. And she never even asked about her mother.

XXX

It was high noon and he was beginning to lose hope. He'd been asking around for hours and still found nothing. Two, three false trails that did lead him to _some_ recently married couple, but not Delilah. Growing both frustrated and hngry, he left the main market area and dove into the cluster of small side streets that outlined the Merchant Quarter in hopes of finding some small tavern and getting some lunch before he resumes his search.

He was just about enter one when he heard a voice behind him - a voice he hadn't heard in eight years - and he froze in his tracks.

"…Nataniel?"

Slowly, he turned around, heart in throat, and only managed a stunned "Delilah…" before the dark-haired young woman rushed into his embrace.


	17. Family Reunion

**A/N****: Writing dialogues is **_**hard**_**, dammit. But I wanted to churn this one out anyway. We all have an idea of how this conversation must have went, but I was curious to hear **_**exactly**_** what was said and how. If you got a better rendition, I'm all ears. Fair warning: it's a long one, so probably typo bombs aplenty.**

XXX

**Family Reunion**

_Nathaniel is finally forced to confront some uncomfortable truths but also discoveres some rather pleasant ones in the process. Bonus apperances: Soup! …unless it was stew._

XXX

The room was small but airy, just like the rest of the home. It was, beyond doubt, a home; a neat, tidy place connected to the area below via a short flight of stairs behind the heavy curtain in the back of the shop.

Nathaniel found it surreal.

Darkwood door with brass carvings led into the apartment. He noted absentmindedly as Delilah ushered him in that while sturdy, the lock would present no challenge to him. Should he mention that to her?

The place really was small: two rooms on one side, kitchen and a dining area with no partition between them on the other; a privy and a terrace overlooking the inner courtyard shared by another building. But it was bright - pastel colours, no dust, small, fluffy pillows scattered on the sofa in the larger of the two rooms in which Delilah deposited him and sat herself beside him. She always loved pillows. Her room had been full of them, once. Back when they both still lived at the Keep…

The first words he could get past his throat after just standing there for a small eternity, in tight embrace and the murmurs of 'I missed you, I missed you, I missed you' was to tell her to come back to Vigil with him. Delilah had merely laughed before happily grabbing his hands and ushering him into her home: "Don't be silly, Nathaniel." He couldn't see what was so silly about it, but he was beginning to now, as the smell of clean linens, darkwood and lentil soup permeated his nostrils in this huddled little nest.

She still hadn't let go of his hands. He didn't want her to, either, but then she sniffed once and almost jumped off the sofa: "Maker, my soup!" and rushed into the kitchen before Nathaniel could protest. "Be right back!" she called out, "It's okay - nothing's burnt," she went on while all Nathaniel could think of was that she shouldn't be jumping around like that when she was pregnant and…

Maker's mercy - His sister was pregnant! He hand't even seen it at first, hugging her tightly in the street as he was, and now he wondered how in the world could he have missed spotting it right away. Sitting there on that sofa, he was fast learning the meaning of the words "dumbstricken" and "at loss for words".

"I'm such a terrible cook," Delilah popped back into the room, re-acquired his hands and settled back beside him. "But I saved the soup!" she beamed and Nathaniel couldn't help but smile in return. "Albert tought me how to cook."

"Albert…?" His mind was still trying to catch up with all this.

"My husband, silly," Delilah laughed, but then her smile softened into something deeper - more tender and with a hint of pain. "I tought you were dead, Nate," she said softly, squeezing his hands that bit harder.

"I…" There was a stone in his throat and he swallowed hard to push it down. "I thought the same of you."

There was a moment of silence before realization dawned them both and understanding washed over Delilah's features.

"Oh, Nate…" She squeezed his hands tightly, and for a moment there, he felt like he was the younger one of the two. "It must have been so terrible for you, wasn't it."

It wasn't a question but a statement; he could practically see the her toughts unraveling a tapestry of what must have happened as she effortlessly put two and three together and the feeling of being the younger one intensified at the sight.

"You rushed straight back from the Free Marches the moment you heard, didn't you?"

He nodded. What was there to say? His sister understood him, better than he had known. Or expected. His little sister - no longer a child, but a grown woman. Maker, has it really been that long? In his mind's eye, he still saw a girl of seventeen, and exactly as much of an adult and as much of a child as a noble girl of seventeen can be. And now she had another life growing inside her.

Her voice dragged him back to the present, "What have you heard?" Quiet, soft and quivering just slightly; her eyes seemed to have turned a deeper shade of grey. It couldn't have hurt more if someone stabbed a hot needle through his heart. His jaw tightened, his own voice coming out hoarse as all the bitterness from before came back to him in full force.

"All the lies you expect the victors to spew when they need to justify their deeds. When they need a villain to their heroes. That father was-"

He stopped, suddenly, as Delilah pulled back, her hands still holding his but her expression turned into something Nathaniel could not quite place. Blank, and slightly susprised, but only for a moment. She stared at him for one long moment and then averted her gaze and lowered her head.

"You have always worshiped him, Nate. So, so very much," she whispered, throat full of sorrow. "Nathaniel…" She squeezed his hands once, sharply, and he thought she would start to cry. "Whatever you have heard…"

He really did think she would start to cry - his own eyes already burned with held-back tears - that she would unload all the grief and pain she had felt all this time, at their father's death, their family's demise, the scorn and isolation they now both shared in; that she would tell him that whatever he had heard, it was all vicious, bitter lies. But Delilah raised her head and instead said:

"…the truth was even worse."

It wasn't what she said, it was _how_ she said it: a harsh near-whisper, bitter, almost angry, and eyes hard as stone. And he still could have taken it the wrong way: that she was telling him that what had truly happened was even worse than he had tought; but her next words dispelled such notion even as he was grasping for it.

"Father was a monster."

It hit him like a maul; the harsh, strangled voice, the vehemence with which she spoke and, yes, _hatred_ in her eyes. Shocked, he pulled back, gasped.

"How… How can you say that?"

"How can I not?" she cried. "You weren't _here_, Nathaniel. You… you have no idea what he has done."

What he has done… What _he_ has done?! Reeling from shock, he got a sudden urge to grab his sister by the shoulders and shake her, hard. It was only the sight of her rounded belly that stopped him from doing exactly that.

"Delilah! Whatever he did-" She cut him off.

"He murdered the Couslands, Nathaniel! And that was just the start!"

He pulled back as she let go of his hands, the pastel colours of the quaint little room in stark contrast with the vivid pain and anger on his sister's face. She suddenly looked so out of place here, the background so wrong for the harsh emotions displayed against it. It all felt wrong, _he_ felt all wrong and yes, he had heard about the Couslands and yes, he had heard his father had played a part in that, but…

"The Couslands were conspiring with the Orlesians! They were traitors! Father must have-"

"Is _that_ what you heard, Nathaniel?" She almost laughed. "Is _that_ what you heard?"

She sagged mid-sentence.

"…or is that what you _wanted_ to hear?" she finished quietly.

Nathaniel's vision swirled, Delilah's sad, dissapointed voice ringing in his ears as her words stroke a chord he refused to acknowledge.

"Delilah, I…"

"You never could accept the truth, Nathaniel. About him." She clutched at a pillow. "You always had an excuse, no matter what he did. Always. No matter how cruel, or harsh or strict or just _wrong_ he had been. To us. To anyone."

His shoulders sagged. Delilah had always been a bit of a rebel at heart, but always stayed shy of actual confrontation. That she would still carry a grudge from so long ago was… Well, it was Delilah that he remembered. He felt like the older one again.

"Delilah," he pleaded, "We were children. And we _were_ a handful. He had to-"

"And you _still_ do it!" She straightened up, her hands clenched around the corners of a pillow at odds with the wounded expression on her face. "Even now! After all this time! After everything that had happened, and you _still_ defend him. Nate, how can you?!"

She brought the pillow up to her chest and hugged it, leaned her chin against it and looked up. Breeze fluttered a curtain and a ray of sunlight fell across her hair, making it appear lighter than it was.

"Do you know he never even spoke of you? Not even once?" Her voice was constricted, pained. "You always tought the world of him - you _still_ do. And he never even spoke your name? His eldest son, his heir, and he just shipped you off and then acted like you didn't even exist!"

She started to sob. Nathaniel leaned forward and took hold of her hands. She didn't let go of the pillow, just lowered her forehead on his knuckles and wept softly. "Like you were never there, Nate. And then you stopped writing and I didn't know what to-"

He frowned, confused. "I _did_ write. Almost every month. But then _you_ stopped replying and…" She looked up, swallowing back a sob.

"I never got those letters." She bit at her lip. "I mean… I did, at first. The first year, and the second, but then… Then you stopped responding and I tought…" she floundered for a moment, "I don't know what I tought. But it didn't matter either way: father had forbidden me to write any more, me and Thomas both. Tommy never wrote to you anyway."

"No. He didn't." And now never will. He didn't want to think about his brother right then, not yet. He couldn't. When Nathaniel was twenty-two, he had been sent to the Free Marches; when Thomas was twenty-two, he was dead. Delilah sniffled.

"But I did. And then after a year or so, father said I am to stop. That you are a grown man and you need to come into your own, that you need toughen up and learn to rely on yourself and that you don't need a little sister clinging to your shirt. And that I need to grow up too, and start acting like it. That I… That I will probably get married soon so I should prepare myself to be a proper wife and worthy of our name, not waste my time writing to a brother who soon won't be a part of my life anyway."

That… sounded like something their father would say. It sounded _exactly_ like what their father would say. But harsh as it may seem it was still… It was still the way life worked, the way nobles ought to carry on. And he was preparing them for it, the best he could. He told that to her. She bit her lip again.

"That's what I tought, at first. But now…? Now I think- no, now I _know_ that is not the real reason he made me stop writing to you. Not all of it. …He did not want you to know, Nate. And he didn't want you back." He started shaking his head, wanted to protest, but Delilah pressed on. "No, Nate - Listen to me. He wanted us to lose touch, to grow estranged. Because more apart we grew, less reason you'd have to come back. Just.. just look at what happened. You stayed away for eight years - Full eight years, Nathaniel. It was supposed to be just a few…"

"I…" he stammered, brain swimming. "Father had not called me back-"

"And he never would have. He wanted you gone, Nate. For good. Because… Because I was to be married off or.. something, and Tommy was a mere puppet in his hands. Neither of us could do anything about it. But you? He couldn't play _you_, Nate, not like that. You could have stood up to him. And you _would_ have, had you been here for it all."

He still shook his head, disbelieving. His sister was making no sense. "Delilah, that's absurd. Are you telling me that you think father had everything planned nearly a decade in advance? Whatever that 'everything' even is? That is… That is just absurd."

"No, Nate. No, it is not. He was always an ambitious man. You know that."

"Ambition is not a crime."

"But it can lead one to crime," she countered. "The… atrocities he had commited," she shivered at the mere tought, "It was horrible, Nate. He turned into a monster, true monster. He always had it in him - No, don't interrupt, please. Do you remember Aiden? The gamekeeper?"

It took him a moment to remember what she was talking about, but only a moment. Yes, he remembered Aiden… All too well.

"Do you remember what he did to him? I… I cried myself to sleep for a week afterwards. And for what? All… _that_ for a single doe? Nathaniel, that was…"

Bile rose at the memory, yet he still could not accept it. "It was… harsh, yes. Perhaps harsher than it should have been, but-" Delilah clenched her small hands into fists, clutching the edges of the pillow so hard he tought it would rip.

"No "but", Nathaniel! There is no "but"! What he did was just horrible, period! …and he _enjoyed it_, Nate. He _enjoyed_ it. That look in his eyes that he had? It… it scared me, Nathaniel, scared me so bad. Father was… a cruel man, Nahaniel. And worse. He… enjoyed cruelty; he always had. He just kept it curbed. Mostly. And then… didn't."

"Delilah…?"

They both looked up, startled, as the door to the room opened to reveal a man standing in them. Nathaniel tensed instinctively, feeling very, very awkward all out of sudden. This must be Delilah's husband (and how did the man move so quietly he didn't even hear him until just now?). He had no idea what to expect but he had a good guess as to what a man might think when walks into his own room to find his young, pregnant wife holding hands with a perfect stranger.

"Albert!" Delilah exclaimed happily, her gloom from second ago gone in an instant.

The man's lips curled slightly in a puzzled little smile as he looked from his wife to Nathaniel. "Um… Hello?"

"Oh, Albert!" She jumped from the sofa without letting go of Nathaniel's hands, giving him a little tug as she rose. "I'm so happy you came! Come in and meet my brother," she beamed.

Aforementioned brother stood up after her, feeling more awkward by a moment. The man crossed the room and gave Delilah a kiss on the cheek and Nathaniel relaxed a little. The man still had that half-puzzeled smile but there was no anger in his eyes. Instead, he looked at Nathaniel with merely mild confusion.

"Your brother? But… I tought your brother was-" He was going to say "dead" but then suddenly remembered. "Oh. Your other brother. I'm sorry love, I completely forgot…" He stopped and looked at Nathaniel, embarrassment slowly spreading across his face. "Oh my, this was tactless, wasn't it? I'm sorry, ser." He looked at Delilah with a 'whoops' expression, then back at Nathaniel and then at Delilah again. "Um... Do you think I could go out and then walk in again and do it right this time?"

Delilah burst into laughter and Nathaniel couldn't help but chuckle himself, if only at the sudden absurdity of everything that had happened today so far. "That's all right, ser. No harm done. I have been away for eight years after all. I'm Nathaniel." He offered his hand, once Delilah remembered to release it. "The man clasped it firmly.

"Albert. It's an pleasure to finally to meet you. And please, accept my condolences about your brother."

Nathaniel nodded, noting that Albert hadn't offered such commiseration about his father as well. Regardless, in these few short moments that he'd known him he found he had liked the man. He wasn't what one would call 'handsome' but he had that… something about him that spoke to people. Light brown hair, a bit messy, and large, deep brown eyes. He must have been around Nathaniel's age, though it was hard to tell. There were wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth which possibly made him look slightly older than he truly was. But they were happy wrinkles, the kind one sees on people who smile a lot, and Albert was indeed smiling, inside and out and his eyes were kind.

Whatever else might have happened while he was gone and however much his siter must have suffered before, Nathaniel knew then and there that she had married a good man and that she was truly happy now. And in that moment, that was all that really mattered.

He was snapped out of his toughts as Albert sniffed the air, the same way Delilah had when she first showed him in and it was Delilah's turn to turn a shade of 'whoops'.

"My… soup?"

"I'll get it."

Delilah smiled sheepishly as Albert quickly mounted a lunch-saving mission in the kitchen. "I'll… Buy you lunch?"

It was at that moment that Nathaniel's stomach decided to voice its protest at being neglected since early last night and it did so loudly. Delilah's eyes widened a fraction. "Double portion?" She chuckled and took his hand. "Come. Let's see if Albert managed to save us all from starvation. "

They entered the kitchen just as Albert was moving a large, steaming pot off the stove and onto the table. "There now," he chuckled and went to set the plates. "Though I'm afraid it's more of a stew than a soup now." Delilah watched him open the cupboard and frowned when she saw he only pulled two plates out.

"You're not staying?"

Albert put the plates down and gave them both a soft smile. "No. You two have a lot catching up to do I'd wager. You don't need me around." He produced the cutlery and a loaf of bread as he spoke.

"I'll pop over to Karelyn's to see about that shipment. She's been bugging me about it for a whole week, so might as well get it over with. And then I'll go see Frederick before he sails out. I'll see you for dinner, love." He hugged Delilah and gave her a small kiss, then put a gentle hand on her belly. "You too, little one." He turned to Nathaniel. "I'm truly happy to have finaly met you. Please, don't be a stranger from now on."

"Thank you," Nathaniel said, and the two shook hands before Albert left and Delilah ushered him to the table. He didn't need to be asked twice.

XXX

The kitchen was bright, like the rest of the house, ample sunlight coming in through the window for the better part of the day. And the soup - or was it a stew now? - did look tasty, even though it smelt slightly burnt. There was a healthy portion of meet in it, too; his sister and her husband were indeed doing well. Nathaniel dug in.

"This is good," he said between two mouthfulls. Delilah chuckled into her spoon.

"You are such a terible liar, Nate."

"Only a bit," he teased. "So… You learned how to cook."

"I learned many things, Nate." It sounded like she meant more than just housework, bu t she didn't dwell on it and instead continued lightly: "Except knitting. I just can't get knitting at all. And no matter how hard I try or what I want to make, it always comes out as a scarf. So, I gave up on knitting. What about you?"

"I can darn a sock."

She laughed, nearly spilling her spoon. It was good to hear her laugh. "I meant, what have _you_ learned? And how were the Free Marches anyway? Anything exciting?" She put on a mishivous grin. "Any girl you'd like to tell me about?"

It took all he had to restrain a grin. "I had a good mare there if that's what you're asking. Real beauty, blue roan, excellent rot…"

She threw a piece of bread at him. "You're being impossible." He couldn't contain a chuckle any more and she stuck out her tongue at him and giggled in return.

The rest of the lunch passed pretty much the same, Delilah telling him about the shop and the latest gossips, about the baby and the recent Wintersend, he sharing few odd stories and anecdotes about the Free Marches. Both avoided the topic of their father and everything that had happened during the war and the Blight. But once they were finished and Nathaniel had some time to both calm his nerves and gather his toughts he took Delilah's hand and said:

"All right. Tell me what really happened. Everything."

Her expression turned serious. "And you promise you'll listen?" He nodded. "All right then. Let's just clean up the table first."

XXX

After depositing the plates and the now empty pot into the sink, they moved back into the larger room they were sitting in before. The smaller room, Delilah explained, was all prepared for when the baby arrives. Nathaniel realized he forgot to ask.

"When are you due?"

She smiled and stroked her stomach. "In a month. Well, more like three weeks now- Ow!" His suddenly startled expression made her giggle again. "Looks like somebody's eager to meet his uncle. Want to feel it?"

She took his hand and placed it on her belly as Nathaniel suddenly acquired that same dumbstricken expression of men everywhere when confronted with the mystery that was a female womb. And the same goofy smile when the baby moved under his fingers.

"I'm… going to be an uncle," was all the coherence he could muster.

Another chuckle, before she turned serious again. "Yes, yes you are, Nate. And you better be a good one, too. But first, you need to know why I am so happy that the baby won't have a grandfather as well."

She pulled him back onto the sofa, curled up beside him and pondered where to begin. "Tell me what you heard, first. I don't know how much or little reached the Free Marches - there was so much going on here at that time. And then tell me what you heard when you came back. I know you Nate; you don't run into things blindly so you must have asked around first. So tell me what you heard and then tell me what you _thought_ you heard. And then I'll tell you the real truth."

Nathaniel breathed in deeply and nodded. "Very well. Here is what I know…"

It took a while to tell the whole story, though he tried to keep it short and to the point. Bitternes crept back into him and grew with every next word he said, slowing him down, though this time tempered somewhat by the fact that no matter what had happened, his sister came out of it unharmed and had even found hapiness at the end of it all. But what slowed him down more then bitterness and, yes, the pain that still bit at his chest was the growing feeling of… wrongness that increased as he moved along. It had been easy to stew on his own, especially when he thought he was now truly alone, to doubt and to anger, to hurt and to nurse revenge. It had been easy to keep the internal monologue going, but there was something about hearing those thoughts spoken out loud, to another, that made those same thoughts that he was so certain about sound… off, somehow. Hollow. …Wrong. Especially when he had Delilah's face to read as he spoke: the tiny twitch of an eye muscle at this word, furrowing of eyebrows at that one and by the time he had finished he found he was far less certain of things than he had previously been. And because of it, as well as few other reasons, he stopped short of telling her about the last two weeks he had spent here and ended his story with his coming to Amaranthine from Denerim without telling her when, exactly, he had arrived.

Delilah remained silent for a while after he was done, merely watched him with a mixture of sadness and deep, caring love. When she finally broke the silence her first words were:

"Pretty much everything you heard was true, Nate. And pretty much everything you made of it is not. You are not going to like this, Nathaniel, and not just because I know how much you hate being wrong about things. You won't like it because there is nothing there to like. Or approve of. Or excuse." Her hands plucked at the pillow absently as she begun.

/

"I suppose it officialy started with the Couslands but in truth, it begun long before that. There were always signs, Nate: father was _not_ a nice man. And soon after you left he… He started growing ambitious, far more then he used to be. I'm not sure I can explain it, really - on the surface everything seemed fine. But in reality? It just… wasn't."

"It was nothing much at first, but it grew fast. He started confering with other nobles more actively, more then ever and you know how he was always keen to have his hand and his say in everything he deemed important. Well… he became even more so, so much that it started to frighten me. I know it sounds silly to be afraid of your own father just because he plunges himself into poiltics but Nate, it wasn't just a plunge, it was an obsession. And it grew, and his ambition with it. Or perhaps… Perhaps it was the other way around and that ambition, that obsession was always there and he was only waiting to give it full wings..."

/

"And eventually he did. But before that, he begun… 'consolidating his hold' he called it. The truth? He just became more vicious as time went by. The dungeons were always full, he punished people for slightest transgressions. To show he rules his land with a steady and firm hand, he had said, to show both the people and other nobles that he was capable of keeping both order and peace. And that if he were capable, soon enough he would be given more. Because he deserved more. But Nate, he also enjoyed it. There were incidents in the past, you know of that. Aidan, and a few others. But later on? He enjoyed it, and once he realized he could do it _and_ get away with it, he begun indulging himself. And then it wasn't just the incidents, it was Aidan all the time..."

/

"And it only got worse. He was always cold, and distant to us. He grew colder still. I… was just an asset to him, a pawn to eventually play in a game of marriage, and Tommy… He started grooming him to be his heir almost immediately after you left. And it was so obvious, too. Only… he did not want Tommy to be his heir, he wanted him to be his puppet. And Tommy… Tommy was always a bit of a mush, and he always had a penchant for drink. But father pushed him so hard he became a true drunk within a year. Well, at least he was a happy drunk. Most of the time, anyway. I think it was just easier for him to lose himself in a bottle and pretend that nothing is happening at all. Maybe. I don't know. All I know is that father wanted everything, and he would do anything to achieve that. And then when the true opportunity presented itself, he took it - purposely and with pleasure..."

/

"You heard about the Couslands, but not the whole story. The Darkspawn were already gathering in the Korcari Wilds, though no one yet believed it was really another Blight. The Couslands already sent their troops to Ostagar. I hear Fergus left that very evening, just before the… the massacre. And it was a massacre, Nate; butchery in cold blood. He killed them all. It was the only reason he went to their home: to murder. I… I don't know if he had already thrown his hand in with Loghain at that time or did that come later, but… That look in his eye when he returned? It was… Horrible. He was the one who came up with the whole Orlesians and traitors story and sure, he kept up apperances in public, but back home? I've seen him Nate, and he was postively glowing with satisfaction. And I was terrified. You can't imagine what it was like, Nate - to live in such fear every day, to wake up with it in the morning and go to bed in the night, every day, every night, to feel, to _know_ I'm just a pawn and if father decides it would further his plans he would sacrifise me just as easily as everyone else. I was afraid, Nate. I was so afraid… When Tommy died, later, in the war, he didn't even blink! He was merely… Frustrated, that's all. Frustrated that something put a kink in his plans. That was all Tommy was to him, Nate. All we all were to him: not his children, only tools..."

/

"When Loghain gave him Denerim it was a relief. _I_ was relieved. He wanted me to come with him but I pretended to be sick so I wouldn't have to go. And that's when I escaped. He arranged for a carriage to take me a week after him and I… I ran away the very same night he left. And if it weren't for Albert, I don't know what would have become of me. I knew Albert from before and… Well, I admit I fancied him already but you know father would _never_ allow such a thing. But when he left all he could think of was how even more power came into his hands now, and so… I ran away. And I don't know if he even knew about it. And if he did, he certainly did not care any more. He had his power, and wanted more still, but he no longer needed me to secure it so if I was gone then good riddance to me..."

/

"Albert saved me, in every way possible, but that is a story for another time. I've been here for about a month when we started getting news from Denerim. About how he ruled it. About what he did. They… they say he actually moved his quarters into the dungeons. So he could be closer to… You know… I don't know if that was true or not, but I wouldn't be surprised if it were. And then after the Landsmeet, we heard a lot more. About what he did. How he kidnapped the Queen. And others. How he sold people to the Tevinters. How he… Nate, when we heard he was dead, I cheered! I cheered and if I felt anythign else then it was regret that someone hand't done it sooner. He was a monster, Nate, a vicious, ambitious monster. Everything that had happened, to us, _with _us, it was him. Only him. May the Maker curse his soul forever."

XXX

Daylight was slowly waning and Nathaniel set with his face in his hands, Delilah's hand on his shoulder, her words swirling through his brain over and over again. He felt like a mountain came crushing down on him and he was squirming in vain, trying to make sense of it all. To no avail.

"Maker…"

It was a lot to take in, as Delilah's words made him tear down everything he tought he knew and rearrange it into something even worse, all the while trying to reconcile in his mind's eye the image of a man, slightly distant yet faintly smiling, leading a small boy to Amaranthine fair with the cold, cruel monster from Delilah's tale. It was a futile attempt, made all the worse for the fact that it had succeeded.

And beneath all that, a growing resentment aimed at his own self. He _had_ heard all that before, all of it. And he refused to believe it, instead twisted the truth into what he had wanted the truth to be. How could he have been so blind, so... stupid? Such stubborn fool? But he knew how, and he knew why, and that made everything ten times harder to accept. He was aware that deep inside, he was _still_ fighting it, some part of him still wanting to believe that what Delilah had told him was not true. And he hated himself for that.

It wasn't just that he was wrong about what happened recently - He was forced to re-examne everything he ever knew in this new light. Or semi-new. A part of him had always known… And yet… He had a lot to think about.

"Nate..?"

He didn't respond at first so Delilah squeezed his shoulder harder. "Nate."

He looked up. "It's getting dark, Nate. Come on, let's get you settled into the small room. I can get you some sheets and-"

He shook his head in refusal. "No, no. I… I should go." He moved to stand up, but Delilah held him back.

"It's getting dark, Nate. Where would you go? Come, get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

He won't. Maker, he so won't. And he couldn't stay here, not for the night, not for another moment. He needed some air, he needed to think, better yet not to think at all for a while. And he couldn't do that in here, in this house. This was Delilah's home, not his, and he wasn't a part of that life. She was his sister, but he… he was an outsider, a pariah, now more than ever.

He didn't tell her any of that, however.

"I really need to go, Delilah. I must return to the Keep; I already stayed more than I should have."

Delilah paused, that bright brain of hers putting things together faster than Nathaniel could spin them. "The Keep? What would yo do back in the Vigil and- Wait! _Return_ to the Keep? You've been there already? When? Why…?"

He didn't want to tell her, not yet, but he had no choice now. "I returned to Ferelden nearly three weeks ago, Delilah. And… I joined the Grey Wardens."

She opened her mouth to say something and then closed them when her brain supplied no words for her. She blinked and tried again. "You… Joined the Wardens." She honestly did not know what to make of that. "That's… great. Right?" But before he could reply one way or another, it dawned on her.

"Wait, wait. You've been here for three weeks. And you joined the Wardens. But not the Orlesian ones. We heard about the attack and that they all died. So that must mean you joined under the new Warden-Commander. Who also happens to be the Hero of Ferelden. Who also happens to be the woman who… But you thought that father was… I mean, I only told you all that had happened just now and even this morning you still bellieved that…" Her line of thought came to a standstill. "I… I don't want to know how that went down, do I?"

"Not smoothly. Let us… leave it at that for now."

"M-hm. Right. Well… Are you going to hike all night then? There's only about an hour of light left, and…"

He took her by the hands and kissed the tips of her fingers. "Don't worry. I'll take a horse if I can find one. And if not… Well, I'll manage. I managed worse."

"Take care, Nate."

"I will."

"And do come back and visit. When you can."

"I will, Delilah. I promise, I will."

And with that, he was gone.

**XXXXX**

He walked out into the dusk and for a while just wondered wherever his feet would take him. He didn't plan to go back to the Keep tonight, not really - he just needed to say something to Delilah other than what he was really thinking. He suspected she read straight through him anyway. It didn't matter.

Had his feet took him down the right corner, he would have found an inn and crashed there for the night. But instead he turned left and not halfway down the street nearly bumped into a man, haggard in apperance, very upset, looking over his shoulder, walking almost sideways, and rubbing at his throat.

"Damn crazy elf!" There was a fine line of blood smearing his fingers and a mark on his throat as if someone had pressed the flat of a blade against it real hard.

Was it instinct or Maker's own wicked sense of irony, Nathaniel never decided. But in a spur of a moment, as other people in the street begun to gather, curious, he grabbed the man's shoulder.

"What elf? What happened?"

"The bitch just jumped me, that's what happened! I was just telling my friend here about some templars and a mage prisoner I saw on the road today and that crazy elvish bitch and that monster hound of hers just _jumped_ at me like she was-"

"Where?!"

"Just over there, around that corner. Someone ought to stop that crazy elf, I'm telling you. She's insane! Why are they even allowed to carry weapons I ask you? They should all get locked up somewhere…"

But Nathaniel was no longer listening, and was already sprinting down the street in the direction the man had pointed. Andraste's flaming tits, to quote the aforementioned crazy elf, for there could have been only one _that_ crazy around, what did those two get themselves into now?!

XXX

He rushed around the corner but caught no glimpse of her. The puzzled expressions on the passer-by's faces did give him a clue as to where she likely went, though. He followed the trail of confusion or outright anger for a bit, but still couldn't spot her. But he was quite close to the small gate now and that man did say he saw some templars and a mage captive on the road, so… And just as he was certain who the elf in question must have been, he also had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly who the mage in question was, too.

Tracking a light-footed elf was not easy even in daytime. During the evening and later, the night, it was almost impossible. But the trail of five, no six armoured people was another thing entirely. Nathaniel jogged down the road and hoped he would arrive on time. For what, though, he had no idea.

There were a lot of things he could say about his life right then, but 'dull' certainly wasn't one of them.

And few hours later, it became even less so.

XXX

She ran through the woods and thickets by the road, occasionally slowing down to a trot and then picking up speed again as the mabari ran in front, nose to the ground and softly growling. She had no idea how long she'd been running and she didn't care, either, blind fury propelling her on through the night.

It was closer to dawn then dusk when Bandit made a sudden stop, ears to the skull and muzzle twitching. She slowed to a walk, chest heaving and muscles twitching from exertion and followed him through the underbrush, and when he stopped again she crouched down beside him.

Some paces out, a campfire was flickering its dying flames, outlining six figures standing around it and the seventh sprawled on the ground few steps away. One of the six kicked at him with a heavy plated boot and he groaned.

Quiet as death, Bandit lept away to circle into a flanking position.

Another figure, the only one without a helmet on took a step closer and unsheathed a sword.

The elf snarled and grabbed her blades.

And then jumped.


	18. Jury, Judge, Executioner

**A/N****: Headache and nausea make for a very short chapter. No guilt, for this was supposed to be a collection of short, random scenes anyway. Still not confident about getting Anders' voice right, but he's sure fun to work with. Next instalment after tea (hopefuly) does its magic.**

XXX

**Jury, Judge, Executioner**

_You can't keep a good man down. Except when you can._

XXX

Anders' vision swirled. He had expected some rough handling - Rylock was pretty darn furious, after all. He _had_ given her a chase to remember this time around. And he had fully expected to be dragged back to the Circle Tower, again. Where he either would or wouldn't manage to invoke his new Grey Warden status and get off the hook. But there was supposed be ample traveling time during which he could examine various possible approaches in relative peace. Say what you will about the Templars, but there was decidedly less impromptu Fade and Deep Roads trips involved where they were concerned. More other things, though, and occasional smacks were not an unkown whenever he invariably took yet another trip back to the Tower with them. He had been expecting that.

He hadn't been expecting _this_.

Looks like he had finally pushed Rylock's patience too far.

It was actually rather ironic: a healer, rendered incapable of healing, exactly when he needed those skills the most. The joke was not lost to him. But between six Templars, even his considerable mana reserve was easily kept nonexistent. Which… made some sense, he supposed. Insofar as anything made sense right now, what with his head spinning and his body hurting in places he didn't even know could hurt. Could hair hurt? It sure felt like it could.

Mana powered mages' spells. With mana gone, the only other resource on hand was blood. The Templars made sure he had that particular supply at his disposal aplenty, though not exactly where he prefered it to be. _Inside_ a body was its proper place far as he could remember. And how much of the stuff could that container hold anyway? Surely, not this much. Can't be all his, can it?

A true maleficar would have used what was available by now; would have used it few hours ago, as a matter of fact. He didn't. He's seen abominations and had long ago decided that he just didn't like the looks. His stubborn clinging to his fashion sense seemed to have rather dissapointed the Templars in attendance. So they tried harder.

He gave up trying to figure out what all was broken by now.

The campfire sputtered cinders into the night as one of the three Templars sitting around it added another branch. The fourth was standing a bit off to the side. The fifth retreated after giving his boot one final introduction to Anders' ribs. Forgetful boot, that one. Seemed like it had to be reintroduced at least ten times in a span of an hour lest it forgets its lesson. Much like a Templar, really. Well, at least it and its owner were a match.

The shadow of the sixth Templar fell on him, obscuring the other four from sight. Was she really always that tall? It was, he supposed, a matter of perspective. Right now, quite literally. Strange to think of it at this moment, but how big was she, really? He never saw her out of her armour. Not for the lack of trying, mind. But she _was_ kinda pretty. Or was it just his swollen eye playing tricks on him right now? Probably. Still, shame he couldn't tell her. Broken jaw. Her loss. When it came to words, he was always so much better than her.

"Hm."

There! He _knew_ eloquence just wasn't her thing.

"Looks like you are not a blood mage after all, Anders."

He could have told her that. He _did_ tell her that. But then she broke his jaw.

"You are, however, an apostate…"

Grey Warden. Grey Warden, thank-you-very-much. Grey Wardens cannot be apostates. He told her that, too, even offered to fix her hearing sicne she was so obviously having problems with it. In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have said that. See what happens when you try to be helpful to the Templars?

"...proven to be incorrigible…"

Oh no, not him, not at all. It was just that he had a horrible reaction to circles, is all. Made him dizzy, circles. Cannot fault a man for simply loking out for his health.

"…and also, a murderer."

Hello, Rylock? The Darkspawn? Remember? Not that he was terribly sorry, but…

She unsheathed her sword.

Okay, scratch that. He _was_ sorry. Terribly, terribly sorry.

"I knew those men, Anders," she hissed. "And I will make sure you never murder another good man again." She raised her blade high above her head, both hands on the hilt.

"In the name of the Maker, Anders the Apostate, I sentence you to death!"

And then she died.


	19. Night Terrors

**A/N****: Another battle sequence, slightly different then the previous one. Aiming to keep the tension up, make it at least partially coherent **_**and**_** avoid the actual blow-by-blow approach. Not sure how well that went down, but handing myself a treat for trying.**

XXX

**Night Terrors**

_It was just blood. But Maker, there was so much of it._

XXX

A blur shot out from the shrubbery and rammed into the Templar, one blade through the eye, the other through the throat. She never even had a chance to cry out before she crashed down and the blurred form rolled off her and into the Templar right beside her with a snarl. Another form shot out from the darkness at the same time and launched itself on the Templar standing few paces away from the campfire. This one was also snarling, but at least it was of a proper shape to be making that sound.

And that was about all Anders could make out before everything turned into complete chaos of shouts, blades, growls and spraying blood.

XXX

The three around the fire jumped to their feet as their leader fell and the fourth rolled away in a heap of limbs, fangs and steel. Plate armour was the most protective gear one could wear. They have, however, removed their helmets as they set down, and mabari were war dogs, bred and trained to kill. This one also had more experience then most and it lept straight for the unprotected head and throat. The Templar managed to put his hands up in the last possible moment but nonetheless, he screamed as the huge jaws closed around the side of his face.

The fifth was the only one who kept his helmet on and he was already engaged, though what with, neither of them could really tell just yet. But he had quicker reflexes then his companions, or perhaps just had more battle training then them. When the figure rolled off their leader and straight into his legs in the span of time it took Rylock's body to hit the ground, he had immediately assumed a battle stance, feet planted firmly on the ground for balance and already drawing a sword.

His three companions drew as well, though seconds behind him and lost another precious second or two deciding whether to tackle the beast that rolled away with their unfortunate comrade or the other beast that was assaulting the more fortunate one. In the end, the tangle of limbs disengaged and decided for them. The mabari lept from its prey and launched itself into the next target in sight. The Templar met the beast shield-first while the other two rushed forth to the other one's aid, embers of campfire shooting up under their boots.

XXX

Anders couldn't see much, and not just due to blood in his eyes. All he could make out were flashes of plate armours and blades as they whirrled about in hectic patterns, a shout, a snarl and further away, a growl that ended in a sharp, pained yelp. Through the haze, the only thing he was semi-consciously aware of was that the plate-wearing Templars were being pushed back, the twisting, snarling blur of fury always between himself and them. And then a shield went flying in a wide arc and caught the figure full-on, sending it reeling backwards and closer to Anders. Next moment, he felt the unmistakable burst of a Smite.

XXX

For a moment, everything was still. More experianced combatants would have pressed the advantage unthinking, but all three Templars stopped for a second as their opponent went flying back, dropped into a backwards roll mid-flight and sprang up the moment she touched the ground, snarling like a beast. And a beast she was; now they were sure of it.

It wasn't necessarily the lack of experience on their part. More likely, they were driven by simple need to actually _see_ what was it that they were fighting to begin with. And now they have.

Bathed in blood, hers and theirs both, wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth, she stood in a semi-crouch between them and the mage, snarling like an insane she-wolf, vicious and protective all at once, fire reflecting off her blades the colour of her hair and of blood.

If this was the last thing that the Archdemon saw, Anders could almost feel pity for the bugger.

But the moment only lasted that long before it got broken, the Templars realizing that it was, after all, just a mortal they were up against. Fierce, true, but nonetheless only one elf, the other beast that came with her lying in a puddle of blood some ways off. The three moved as one, spreading out for a better striking edge, the fourth one, the one who did the Smiting, coming in from the side to close the semi-circle around her. Four full plates against one snarling leather. It was going to be a short fight after all.

Except that the next moment, it was no longer four but three, an arrow from nowhere suddenly appearing and striking the leftmost one straight through the throat.

XXX

Nathaniel had slowed down for a moment before hearing the sudden shout out front. Picking up his pace, he shot through the foliage lithe as shadow and emerged on the other side of the thicket with bow and arrows already in hand. But the sight he saw before him pinned him to the spot and his bowarm went down.

The mabari lay off to the side. He couldn't tell if the animal was alive or dead. The remnants of the campfire spat flames into the dark, iluminating the sight that gave him pause. Templars, two on the ground, four still standing, and the elf, standing above another prone figure on the ground like wrath incarnate. And set to kill.

He never even realized up until that very moment how deeply ingrained some lessons were in him. These were the Templars, the steel hand of the Chantry, Maker's battlearm, and for a moment he was overcome with the feeling of: Andraste, this was wrong!

But only for a moment. That was Anders on the ground, and the elf about to get decimated by more than she could take on. He notched an arrow and let fly.

XXX

The second the arrow hit the elf jumped forth with naught but bloody murder on her mind. The Templars countered. More arrows followed. And when they suddenly stopped coming another dark shape joined the frey, striking from shadows with lethal grace. Within moments, it was two on two, then one on two and then: none. Anders watched in stunned amazement as the last Templar body hit the ground, determined not to pass out until he saw this through to the end.

There was an instant in which he tought the fighting would continue as the elf, suddenly left without anything more to kill, turned on Nathaniel, likely mistaking him for another opponent in her blind fury.

Instead of countering the attack, Nathaniel skidded to a side and away, still holding his weapons but arms spread wide, evading instead of confronting. Whether that was incredibly smart or incredibly stupid, Anders had no idea, but it worked. Possibly, it was a bit of both with a healthy dash of level-headedness and self-confidence thrown in for good measure. Anders was no fighter but even he knew that in this berserk state, the elf would fall easy prey to Nathaniel had the man decided to subdue her.

One Templar still drew breath - the one felled down by the mabari, a small eternity ago. He stopped when the elf reached him, the savage strike leaving both blades buried into his face as the elf dashed to her dog's side.

Luckily, there was still a functioning brain present in the party Anders noted with some relief as Howe crouched by his side and cut his bonds.

Or perhaps not, he amended a moment later, as Howe reached into the satchel he carried slung over his shoulder and plopped something distressed, furry and orange onto the ground.

"You forgot this."

Ser Pounce-a-lot hissed, puffed up and paddded over to the mage's face.

"Mreow," he exclaimed and then, apperantly satisfied, begun to calmly lick his paw.


	20. Wounded

**A/N****: The scene wanted out but at the same time refused to get writen. I did what I could. Meanwhile, the writing itch pony is slowing down from trot to walk; dwindling interest is a bitch to cure and I'm running out of enthusiasm hay to feed it.  
**

XXX

**Wounded**

_There are limits to healing magic, especially when the healer is down. The two left standing make do with what they've got._

XXX

"Hang on, boy."

The mabari whimpered, breaths short and choppy, and pawed weakly at the elf's knee.

"You've been through worse," she whispered reassurance though she couldn't remember when was the last time she saw him quite like that. Or if she ever had. He lay on a side, a puddle of blood spreading beneath him, bubbling from the long, gaping wound from ribs to hip. If he hadn't twisted mid-strike, it would have caugh him right across the belly. Even so, it caught its edge. It was a miracle his insides hadn't spilled.

"Hang on."

She pushed his hind leg up, closer to the wound as she scrambled at her belt with her other hand. He whined but obeyed. He understood, even if the pain was unbearable, and he hooked his paw against her ankle to keep his leg in place. There had to be pressure put on the wound, else he'd bleed out.

She breathed relief as her fingers closed around what she was looking for. Blast! Only two. But it'll do. She went from haunch to sit, adjusting her knee and his leg, and placed two small vials on the ground. She unscrambled the top off one and smiled a little as the mabari's ear perked up and he gave a small sniff.

"Yeah. I'm not _completely_ useless. Or that incurably dumb." She felt dumb, though. Or she would have if she had the time for it right now, but she didn't.

"Here…"

She leaned over him, squinted. It was hard to see in the dark, much harder for all the blood. But she managed. Carefully, she poured the vial's contents over the wound, mindful to leave enough thick, viscous mush to go down the entire length of it. It didn't, but it was close enough. She put the now empty vial down and went to unscrew the top off the second one when the mabari gave her a look and an admonitory whine.

"What is it, boy?"

The dog raised its head a bit, eyes darting over his shoulder and whined again. She folowed his gaze. _Ah_.

She leaned over him, hand on his head and thumb stroking him gently below the eye, and planted a kiss on his muzzle.

"You're smarter than me," she whispered into his ear. He licked her nose. She rubbed her cheek against his face with affection.

"Don't rub it in."

She glanced to the side and then over her shoulder where the ruined campfire was giving its last sputtering flicker and got up, gently securing the mabari's hind leg before she did.

"Be still."

XXX

Anders let out a barely audible groan and flopped his arm to the ground, an inch shy of Ser Pounce. The cat jumped with a snort. Nathaniel frowned. This was bad.

The mage tried to push himself up but failed. No wonder. His shoulder was dislocated. Nathaniel was no healer but the awkward angle at which the mage's arm stuck out was obvious. Carefully, he pushed his arm underneath the mage's torso and lifted him up slightly, to allow him to pull his other arm from behind his back, mindful not to cause any more pain than necessary. Anders breathed short, shallow breaths through his nose, and a small grunt as Nathaniel laid him back down. Nathaniel's frown grew darker. It was worse than he thought.

If the mage could have, he would have curled up in a ball; but he couldn't. Broken ribs, as likely as not; cracked, certainly. Nathaniel could only guess at internal damage but he was certain ther was some. More probably a lot. He couldn't quite make out Anders' face, especially with the mage having his back turned to him. And even if he hadn't, it was dark and there was too much blood and mud. He removed a glove and gently traced a finger down the mage's jaw. As he had assumed: broken. This was really, really bad.

How was Anders even still conscious, he had no clue. He had met only a handful of men who would still be, after such a beating. He wasn't sure he'd count himself among them. For all his care-free manner and habitual inanity, the mage was actualy much tougher than he let on, or allowed others to see. But even the toughest man could only take so much.

He threw a quick glance around and his frown deepened: what were his options?

Ser Pounce decided to take advantage of the momentary distraction and padded over. He gave Anders' face a probationary lick. He liked it. He purred.

And meowed his annoyance as a hand dropped on his neck, picked him up and deposited him next to Anders' leg.

"Not now."

Nathaniel knew the mage would let that cat do literally anything, but this was too much. At any rate, more than what Nathaniel was willing to allow. Ignoring the mews of protest he brushed his fingers against the mage's jaw again.

"Can you heal it?"

Anders' breathing was sharp and choppy. "no… mana…" he whispered and Nathaniel had to lean closer to hear him. "need… lyrium." His lips were barely moving. He was trying not to move his jaw.

Nathaniel glanced at the nearest corpse. Rylock's dead eye stared at him blankly. There was a gaping hole where the other one should be. He tried to remember what little he knew of lyrium and its uses.

"The Templars should have some..."

His attention got drawn back by Anders's quiet groan. "not… good… raw."

Nathaniel huffed in annoyance, eyes darting around in an attempt to land on something, _anything_ that might be helpful.

"…potion. my… pack."

Right.

He nodded once and got up in one fluid motion, eyes scanning the campsite for shapes that weren't corpses but backpacks. He spotted two, next to the bedrolls laid out by the trampled campfire, possibly few more a bit further away, and made for them.

The cat, determined to get its own way, began padding over to the mage's face once more. This time though, his progress was cut short by the mage himself, a hand landing on his back as he reached the mage's arm.

"Mreow?"

A finger rubbed behind his ear. He moved his head against it, found it pleasant and plopped down on his belly, curling up beneath Anders' hand. After a bit, he started purring.

XXX

The elf noted his approach though she wasn't looking at him: he could tell by her extended hand, something small held between two fingers and a thumb and pointed in his general direction. The item changed hands in stride as their paths converged next to the campfire cinders, she dropping down on one knee by a bedroll, he proceeding few more steps to where the backpacks lay. A bit of weight lifted off his chest as the recognized the object he now held.

One glance told him neither of two backpacks belonged to Anders: both were unifrom and smaller than his. A bit larger bundle that might be his lay further off. He went to pick it up.

Her hand dropped at her scabbard but found empty air instead of a hilt.

"Crap."

Nathaniel turned, glanced at her, got it in one, glanced around. Both her blades were firmly sheathed in a Templar's face, halfway between here and where the mabari lay. He slung the backpack on one shoulder as she moved to rise and pulled out his hunting knife.

"Hey."

She turned and he dropped the knife on the bedroll as he passed her.

"Here."

He made his way back to Anders, leaving the sound of ripping fabric behind.

XXX

She knelt down beside the mabari and placed a strip of cloth down the length of his wound. The poultice had already begun its work; the blood was no longer gushing from the gap. It still couldn't seal the wound shut, but at least it started soaking up the dirt and the muck out of it. It would still need cleaning, but it took out the worst of it and poured some restorative magic into the flesh. She hoped it would be enough.

Carefully, she pulled the edges of the wound closer together, pressing the cloth against it until it stuck, one painful inch at a time. Bandit whined but remained still, or at least as still as he could.

"Shhhhh..." She bent down and nuzzled his jowl, heedless of drool and blood. "I know it hurts." Her own cheekbone was flaring where the shield caught her in the face but she paid it no mind, not yet; not now.

She kept going, pausing every now and again to give the mabari time to cope, murmuring soothing words into his ear and stroking him gently. At last, she reached the end of the gash, almost at the base of his tail and pulled back a bit, scrutinizing her work. It looked like it would stick. But it wouldn't hold. She'd have to secure the makeshift bandage more.

Gently, she put a hand on the dog's back, just above the shoulder, and gave it a slightest tug - not an actual attempt to move him, just an sign of what she wanted him to try.

"Come on boy. Get up."

The mabari whined, uncertain if he could do it.

"Just a little bit. Come on," she urged him. "You can do it. Come on."

She glanced behind her, blinked at what she saw and turend back to the dog. She pressed a hand at the edge of his sternum where the wound began to secure the bandage and guiided him along with the other as the mabari made an effort to comply.

Eventually he made it, twitching muscles straining to support him and keep his belly just half an inch above the ground as the elf swiftly wound another piece of cloth around his torso three times. Not enough to secure the bandage, but just enough to see them both through the next step.

She held both ends of the cloth above his back tightly and urged him up. He whined in pain as he struggled to rise, but did his best to work through the hurt until he managed to shakily stand on three feet, the fourth one too limp to support him.

"Good boy, Bandit. Good boy. Come on."

The distance he'd normally cover in three leaps now seemed to stretch out to eternity. Still, he lifted a shaky paw, then the other and with a whimper started towards the campfire, the elf supporting him along the way.

The distance really did seem eternal. She could only hope Bandit had it in him to cover it though even so, it might not be enough. He weighted as much as she did, perhaps even few pounds more, and she had no idea if she could support him even halfway there, let alone the entire path. But she'd bloody well try.

XXX

Nathaniel slung the backpack down and crouched, unscrewing the top off the vial he held. There were probably more severe wounds to tend to, but he knew he should go for the jawbone first. Anders would need to be able to swallow that lyrium potion of his first. He hoped he had more than just one in his pack. And even if it weren't for that, the mage had to cough out all that blood out of his throat; left untended, he'd choke on it before morning.

Carefully, he lifted the mage into a semi-sitting position against the crook of his arm and spread half the vial's conents over Anders' jawline. Ser Pounce meowed. Anders let out a pained groan and grimaced, breathing choppy, shallow gasps. His breaths grew sharper as the magic in the poultice begun its work; Nathaniel cringed as the softest sound of grinding bone and Anders' whimper reached his ears.

He tried to cough and Nathaniel leaned him forward in response. It didn't go all that well. Cracked ribs didn't like the strain at all. Anders gasped and tried again. All Nathaniel could do was hold him until he succeeds while rummaging through the mage's backpack blindly with his other hand.

Eventually, he spat out some blood and slumped back against Nathaniel's chest with some relief. Nathaniel took the opportunity to pull the backpack over and next to Anders.

"Where?"

Instead of answering Anders groaned and grabbed at it himself with a shaking hand. A grunt of satisfaction signaled that he found what he was looking for and he pulled out a bluish glowing vial, presenting it to Nathaniel to open it for him. He tipped the potion with some help and let out a sigh of relief and leaned his head back against Nathaniel's arm as the lyrium spread through his veins in a mana replenishing bliss. He still hurt all over, but the feeling of his power returning made it easier to bear: now that he had some mana, he could heal. Although…

He gingerly touched his face and made a soft, groaning noise. "Maker… This is going to hurt."

Well, the sooner he gets it over with the better. He gathered his strenght, focusing against the pain and shot a healing burst onto himself.

He was right. It _did_ hurt. A lot. It was all he could do not to faint.

Nathaniel held him, unmoving, as the mage first tensed, cried out and then started trembling as the spell worked its way through his body. He silently prayed the mage doesn't pass out and he held his breath when the trembling stopped and Anders slumped back against his chest. But then, after a little eternity, Anders mumbled, face still in his hand:

"Uuuh... Andraste's knickers. Remind me not to do that again."

Nathaniel closed his eyes for a moment and breathed a long-suffering sigh of relief he had been holding back ever since this whole thing started. Maker, please let this night end already…

But it wasn't over. Not yet. He snapped out of his wishful toughts and checked the mage over. His breaths deepened and became more steady, his eyes a bit less cloudy and face slightly less swollen than before. All good signs, but he still couldn't gauge the extent of his injuries, especially the internal ones.

"Are you well enough to move now?"

Anders blinked at him. "Oh, sure. And would you also like me to do a little song and dance?"

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. "I prefered you when you were only groaning," he grumbled and before Anders could say anything else hooked his other arm under the mage's legs and lifted him up.

Anders looked at him as he started walking and managed a tiny grin. "My hero."

"I am beginning to see why the Templar found it necessary to break your jaw Anders."

"Flatterer."

"Anders."

"Hmmm…?"

"Shut up."

XXX

The mabari barely made it halfway to the dead fire when Nathaniel laid Anders down on one of the bedrolls. A single glance in the dog's direction told him that he wouldn't make it all the way here on his own and the elf simply lacked the necessary bulk to support him, even in full shape, let alone now.

Leaving the mage to cope on his own for the moment, Nathaniel made it over to the staggering duo in few quick strides.

"Hold on," he said as he knelt on one knee beside the mabari and hooked an arm beneath the panting beast. "I got him."

She stayed until he picked the dog up, but then stayed behind as he carried him over to the shredded bedroll. The dog was heavy, but he could carry him that far. He just hoped the makeshift bandage wouldn't slip before he got there. A muttered curse came behind him, followed by a grunt and then a crunch as the elf planted her foot into a dead man's face, trying to pry her blades free of his skull.

She still returned holding just one.

XXX

It took a bit longer to settle down: to tighten the bandages on the mabari more securely, wash the blood off Anders' face, pull up another bedroll, fish out few real bandages out of the Templars' backpacks and stuff Ser Pounce into Anders' arms for the third time after the cat made a beeline for the hapless dog.

Anders sent the last spell he had the mabari's way, stabilizing him for the time being before finally succumbing to exhaustion. The elf sat down beside her dog, leaned back against a Templar corpse and put his head in her lap, stroking him with her fingers gently as he, too, fell asleep. Nathaniel claimed a log that the Templars were siting on not half an hour before and tried hard not to fall asleep himself. They were out in the open, surrounded by corpses and the stench of drying blood which made them a beacon for any wild beast for miles around. It didn't sit well with him, but he knew there was nothing to be done about it now; if any animal, or Maker forbid, Darkspawn came upon them, none of them were in any shape to fight. It was only sheer habit that still kept him awake.

Several minutes later he, too, was sound asleep.


	21. The Day After

**A/N****: Toying with descriptions 'cause I haven't in a while; not completely satisfied, but still pretty pleased by how it turned out. Also, celebrating one full month of constant writing: Happy one-month birdthday, Story (or whatever the hell you are). Cheers!**

XXX

**The Day After**

_When it comes to these particular Wardens, it was as peaceful as it could get._

XXX

Dawn came and went, crisp and bright, to the sound of birds and the light breeze rustling the leaves of the solitary trees growing amidst the shrubbery some ways off the main road to Denerim. As the sun crept over the horizon, the early chill gave way to pleasant warmness of late spring going on early summer. It was an hour or so before noon when the sun finally crested the treetops and spilled its rays over the campsite and the sights it held:

Bright green clashed with deep red, tempered here and there by glints of silver and stretches of dark brown. Birds were chirping in the foliage, flies buzzing on the corpses; grass adorned with gentle white flowers and trampled into blood-soaked mud; tiny fire softly crackling beneath a small kettle and a solitary blackbird peacefully pecking Rylock's empty eye socket…

…and Ser Pounce-a-lot industriously gnawing on another Templar's decimated hand.

Anders tossed a handful of dried herbs and roots into the kettle and waved an admonishing finger at the cat.

"Leave it alone, Ser Pounce. You don't know where it's been."

Ser Pounce pricked his ears and gave Anders the sideways look only a cat can give, decided that the mage's heart wasn't truly in it and turned back to his nibble.

"Oh, come on. You might catch Templaritis from that. Come here, I've got something better for you."

He went sifting through his backpack and fished out a small, flat oval, almost entirely dry and with a distinct smell of spices and fish. The cat sniffed the air, dropped his nibble and, licking his blood-stained muzzle went for Anders' offering, the regal I-don't-really-care-you-know bearing that all cats posessed clashing with the kitty urge of nibble-nibble-nom-nibble-wanna-now, producing that most amusing of sights known to cat owners everywhere: an attempt at a nonchalant run. Anders found it endearing.

"Puuurrrow?"

Anders chuckled and patted the little monster as it settled down by his foot and begun licking at the treat. "Now there, isn't that much better?" Though if he were to be perfectly honest, there was also something _very_ endearing in watching the cat chew on the Templar. "Shall I train you to become a vicious attack kitten?" he mused out loud as the kitten in question purred. Hm. Perhaps. But not today.

The kettle begun to boil and he puled it off the fire, stirred its contents and added a few drops of an agent he pulled from an inner pocket of his backpack. The concoction sizzled for a second, drawing a curious look from the cat, and then settled down to produce tiny little bubbles. Anders put it on the side and placed another kettle over the fire.

"I wonder if these Templars had sense enough to bring a strainer with them…"

He straightened his back, carefully, and took in the sight of the ruined camp. Strange that he'd be the first to wake when he'd been the one who almost died last night. He fully expected at least Howe to be up before him, but there he was, stretched on the log and sleeping like one, arm over his face. Opposite of the man and to Anders' left, the elf slumbered like a baby against a Templar corpse, cradling the mabari's head in her lap. It would have been almost serene a sight - a girl and her dog, dozing in the sun - if it weren't for the rather unusual choice of a pillow. Or all the blood both were still covered in. She'd have to wash some of it off before he could tell how badly her cheekbone was shattered. Though he'd better see to his own injuries first.

His mana was still far from full but it was returning, slowly, and he'd been carefully sending small waves of healing through himself ever since he woke up not that long ago. There was, he suspected, some serious walking to be had in his near future and he needed to make sure he could endure it. He and the mabari both, he amended as he glanced at the sleeping dog: the bandages and the poultice from last night could only do so much.

He didn't feel comfortable getting up just yet but luckily, the dog was within armsreach which made him very much within spellreach, too. Summoning the power in a careful, by-the-book-sans-the-staff way befitting of an apprentice, Anders shaped it into a moderate and slow-burning rejuvenation and sent it flowing over the mabari in a gentle wave.

The dog stirred, blinked at the mage and gave a small questioning whine. He thumped its tail drowsily a few times and the elf stirred in return. Anders leaned over and patted the dog's rump.

"Pssst." He looked at the slumbering elf in a meaningful way and the mabari settled back down before his shuffling could wake her up. Smart boy.

Anders sat back to watch the second kettle, ready to pour in the dried mushrooms before it begins to boil. A soft "uhm" came from a side, signaling that Howe was waking up, too. Anders spared a glance that way as Howe sat up and rubbed his face. Ser Pounce puttered about, sniffed the cooling kettle curiously, then strolled back over Anders on the way to the backpack and, hopefully, more treats. Anders scratched him behind the ears and produced another nibble, then turned back to the kettle and added the mushrooms in.

XXX

Nathaniel rubbed his neck and flexed his shoulders, trying to ease the tension that had settled during the night. He tried not to dwell on the massacre before him, laid bare as it were in the stark light of the day. What was done was done.

He drained his waterskin almost completely, poured the rest of the water down his face and neck and then forced himself up to look for more. The corpse closest to him still had one long dagger imbedded into its face, right down to the hilt. No wonder the elf had failed to extract it - it was a wonder she managed to get it stuck that deep in the first place: straight through the forehead, where the skull bone was the hardest. He bent down, took hold of the hilt and pulled it out on a second try and a grunt. He claimed the fallen man's waterskin next and then walked over to where the mage was sitting and plopped down beside him.

Anders smiled brightly. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"You look better," Howe said.

It wasn't a lie and it was a telling sign of how things were when a mage in torn, dirty robes, no staff, in bruises and covered in crusted blood was indeed looking better.

"Still a flatterer, Howe."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes and didn't reply, instead set about washing the blood and grime off his face and neck, drawing an angry hiss from Ser Pounce as stray droplets of water landed on his back. Nathaniel looked at the cat with incredulity - he still couldn't believe he had found him determinedly striding down the road in the dead of the night, eyes glowing green and tail a-puff. Maker alone knows what rescue mission that cat would have mounted had it gotten here first.

The second kettle boiled and the remainder of the agent got added to it before it got placed by the first to keep it company as the liquid settled down.

"Be a useful Howe, will you, and strain both of these when they cool down. Seperately. But mix the mush together: the pup's going to need it and so will the Commander. If you are good, you can have what's left."

"Ah. And while I do that you will be doing that little song and dance, I take it?"

"Nope." Anders got up, not entirely with ease. "I will be in the bushes, performing an important medical research. And also taking a piss. I'd gladly take a dump, too, but unfortunatelly I seem to be suffering from a disturbing lack of bowel contents for that."

Howe sized him up for a muzzle. "Kindly spare me the details, Anders."

Anders shrugged. "As you wish. Your loss."

"Just… go."

XXX

Anders returned a bit paler than he left, a hint of pain on his features. Nathaniel looked up from his task.

"Not well?"

Anders sat down and contemplated the campfire, frowning a little. "I'm pissing blood."

Nathaniel stopped what he was doing and turned to face the mage fully. "Ruptured spleen?" he hazarded a guess.

Anders nodded. "Liver too, I'd wager." He looked sideways at Nathaniel. "Do I even want to ask how you know that?"

"I knew a man who died from it."

"Oh, how cheerful."

"I was with him while he was dying from it." He didn't mention that he had been the one who had caused it in the first place.

"What a bright ray of sunshine you are, Howe," Anders snorted before turning serious again. "I can keep it from bursting I suppose, but…"

Nathaniel nodded. "But it will take time to heal fully. I understand."

"Mhm. I'll be out of commision for at least a week, if not longer. Me and the pooch, both. I'm not sure about the Commander."

Nathaniel spared a glance at the elf in question but ended none the wiser. He himself had acquired a colourful selection of cuts and bruises but was otherwise fine. Strained muscle or two, a shallow gash down one leg, possibly a sprained wrist… He'd been better, but he'd been worse, too. And out of four of them, the only one fit enough to fight.

XXX

Both potions have cooled down and the mush spread out on the bandages to thicken when the elf finally woke up, face swollen and groaning curses. She didn't like her cheekbone getting ground back together one single bit; the effect was welcome, but the process was anything but. It took roughly ten minutes for her mood to switch from cranky to foul. Anders ascribed it to pain and exhaustion: it usually took her under five.

Still, things remained civil as she went pilfering the corpses of anything valubale yet small enough to carry easily and grumbling about the Templars' ascetic traveling habits. Anders remained by the fire to change Bandit's bandages, then joined Howe in rummaging through Templars' backpacks and salvaging whatever they could use. He susppected Howe wasn't exactly taken in by this apperant turning from Wardens to scavangers, but the man was nothing if not practical and if he had any complaints, he did not voice them.

Nonetheless, the air of unease grew thicker as their respective tasks drew to a close, an unspoken question lingering above their heads. Howe had reclaimed his place on the log and was tying up the pack he had picked for himself. The elf was back in her spot too, mabari head in lap and frowning at the meager loot she had gathered from the Templars.

It fell to Anders to broach the subject.

"So…" He tied the strings of his pack and looked at the group. "Now that we all seem to be friends again… What now?"

"The fuck you lookin' at me for?" the elf grumbled, not looking up. "I was going to Antiva."

Howe stopped what he was doing. Anders rubbed his chin.

"I am no expert of course, but this," he gestured at their surroundings, "doesn't look like sea to me."

Howe still didn't move.

"Side-trip," the elf said with a snort, still not looking up. "And it's over now, so…"

Howe glared, still as a statue. "So you are leaving. Just like that." It wasn't a question as much as a conclusion, one he clearly did not approve of.

Aaaand…

"Yes."

There! A familiar snarl, sieved through the teeth and denoting an even more familiar anger stirring back from temporary dormancy. Anders was actually surprised it took her this long. And Howe did not dissapoint either.

"So all of this," the man mirrored Anders' gesture from second ago, "The Darkspawn, the Arling… None of it means anything to you?"

The elf's bristled up in an instant. "What, Howe?!"

Boil to snap in two seconds. Anders marked it as a new record. He wished his potions were at least half as quick to cook.

"Just because it means something to _you_, _I_'_m_ supposed to be all up in arms about it?! Fuck that! You and your Arling both!"

Howe stood up. The elf did, too. Bandit whined. Ser Pounce looked on with interest.

Howe's jaw tightened. "It is not _my_ Arling." There was more behind the pent-up tension in that sentence than one could readily see.

"Well it bloody well ain't mine!"

Anders' eyebrows raised. "Technically Commander… it kind of is."

The elf shot him a glare. "Well I don't fucking want it!"

Anders finished tying up his pack. "Well, isn't that just lovely, Commander." He picked up Ser Pounce and stuffed him into the pack's side pocket. "You don't want the Arling," he rose to his feet, "He," he pointed a thumb at Howe, "doesn't want his family dragged through the mud and I," he shot a glance at Rylock's body, "am still not overly trilled at this whole 'conscripted into Wadens' business. And yet, here we are."

The elf stared. He did not miss the flinch at his mention of conscription. It was heavy ammunition to use, but the situation called for it.

"Now, I don't know about you Commander, but I am certainly in no shape to travel anywhere except into bed." He glanced at the mabari. "And neither is he. For at least two weeks. So unless you wish to leave without him…"

The mabari whined. The elf clutched at his neck almost instinctively.

"And besides," Anders added, more softly, "Soldier's Peak is much closer to here than to Antiva."

He watched her clench and unclench her fist, anger fighting under the weight of his words. Her gaze strayed to Rylock.

"You suck at escaping, Anders," she breathed.

He chuckled. "I'm rather brilliant at escaping, actually. It's staying escaped that eludes me. But if I learned anything from all my escapes so far it's that a good escape is all about proper timing." He waited until he had her full attention again to hammer the point home. "And the time is not _now_, Commander."

She kept her gaze locked on him for a while longer, then looked at Rylock again, and then towards the road.

"Fine."

And without another word headed that way.

**XXXXX**

They arrived to Amaranthine well after sundown and had to spend the night outside the city walls. Come morning they would try and find a cart, or maybe even a carriage to take them back to Vigil, in the same uncompanionable silence in which they had arrived. But at least they were all going in the same direction again Anders reflected as he settled down for the night. He wondered if those lyrium potions he had seen in the warehouse were still there - the Templars hadn't taken them with them, after all - and could he persuade the Commander to go grab a few before they leave tomorrow. Odds were that he could.

Perhaps Rivain wasn't such a good idea after all. He didn't know anyone there who would stick their neck out for him quite like that, or at all. Come to think of it, he didn't know he knew anyone like that here either. And yet here they were.

Funny how things work out sometimes.

And maybe this time, it'll be for the best.


	22. Lost In Translation

**A/N****: One word: Pun! Growing tired of the 'doom &amp; gloom' of the previous chapters, so falling back on random frivolity for a change of pace. Bonus cookies to ayone who catches the barley reference before reading the last few lines. **

XXX

**Lost In Translation **

_Or: "On importance of proper enunciation and why you should be extra careful when phrasing things to the Warden-Commander, especially those she does not want to hear"_

XXX

The Wardens had commandeered the chamber in such an easy and off-handed fashion that no one even noticed when it happened. First Oghren claimed his favorite drinking spot at the far end of the hall, away from the hearth and next to the caskets piled up on one side of the door leading to the small inner courtyard with the herb garden. Then the Commander started bringing her meals there and took posession of the only cushioned chair at the long table, across from the hearth and closer to Oghren. Bandit staked his claim under the table next to the Commander's chair: a perfect spot from which he could watch both the main door and the side one. He'd been especially interested in the side one becausee that was where the food came in from, carried in by either one of the cook maids or, sometimes, the cook herself. Anders took up residence across the Commander with his back to the fireplace. Ser Pounce probably thought of the entire Keep as his own property but settled for the top of the table for preference, studiously digging his inquisitive muzzle into every dish laid down. Howe drifted in last, after their return from Amaranthine, and settled on the far end, some ways across Oghren and closest to the small door.

Oghren was the only real fixture in the room though, as he could reliably be found by his favorite beer barrels four times out of five. The others drifted in and out at all hours, though mealtimes were more likely than not to see them all bunched up, especially since both Anders and Howe developed raving appetites shortly after the group's latest escapade. Owing to that, mealtimes became an all-hours affair but at least that made Varel's job slightly easier whenever he needed to find the Wardens. Unless, of course, he was looking for the Commander who had, in the past five or six days since their return, developed an uncanny knack for avoiding him before he'd even start looking.

And thus it came as a surprise to precicely no one when fairly early in the morning the Commander burst into the mess hall like a rabbit who'd just heard the hounds, dashed across the room, jumped over a chair and grabbed Oghren's braided mustache.

"Hide me!"

Oghren blinked. "Ehrm…"

The elf threw a panicked glance over her shoulder and then back at the dwarf. Oghren for his part tried to wriggle his mug in between the Commander's hands and his own facial hair she was tugging on.

"Hide. Me. Now." She said, accentuating every word with a small tug on Oghren's mustache. Oghren managed to take a gulp regardless. The Commander very nearly climbed into his lap.

"What's the problem, Commander?" As long as he was able to drink, he didn't mind having panicked elves scramble all over him.

The elf in question threw another glance at the door and very nearly climbed on Oghren's head. "He's after me!"

"Who's after you, Commander? The pants-eating monster?"

The elf became fluent in Drunk Oghren long ago. Oghren, in turn, was a right natural in Rambling Commander. Anders suspected the two languages were really one and the same.

"Worse!" She climbed over Oghren and scooted behind his chair, squatted down and quickly peeked around.

Bandit cocked his head with a questioning whine. Anders leaned on an elbow more comfortably. Ser Pounce took the opportunity to dive into a bowl of soup momentarily left untended.

"It's Varel!"

Only Howe remained uninterested in the show, sitting with one leg beneath him and fixing the feathers on a neat pile of arrows laid down on the floor before carefully placing each one back into the quiver.

"Oh." Oghren was eloquent as ever. "What is it this time?"

"I don't know! He keeps going on about some barley!"

Oghren nodded sagely. "Ah. Barley. Good thing, barley." He gave his mug a loving look before swigging from it again.

"And, and… He says there's a bunch of nobles coming 'round." She squirmed and peeked from behind the chair again.

Oghren grinned. "Juicy. Wanna borrow my axe?"

"Says they wanna curse me filty!"

Howe froze for a second before resuming his work. Bandit pulled his head back in a clear "what?" little motion. Anders blinked. Oghren paused with the mug halfway to his lips and considered.

"Who'd you piss off this time, Commander?"

"No one! I- Shit!"

Thewre was the sound of heavy footsteps aproaching the halls' main door. The elf bolted from her hidey-spot, cleared a low bench and scrambled onto the window sill.

"You didn't see me!" And then she jumped out.

Few moments later, the door opened and the Senechal of the Vigil Keep walked in, a slightly tired look on his face.

"Have you, prechance, seen the Commander?"

Three hands and one muzzle pointed to the open window in unision. Varel's eyes went a fraction wider as he strolled over with some amusement and took a look outside, just in time to see the Warden-Commander's back hightailing it behind the shed.

He shook his head and tried to supress a chuckle without much success. He sighed. "I suppose I better get going if I want to catch up." He headed back towards the door but paused as he opened them. "And I would like a word with the rest of you afterwards. So please don't run away: one chase a day is, I believe, quite enough."

The door closed behind the Senechal leaving the remaining Wardens to their own designs. Oghren resumed his drinking like nothing at all has happened. Howe still wasn't looking up. Anders exchanged a glance with Bandit and retrieved Ser Pounce from under the bowl he had managed to topple over himself.

"So…" He leaned back in his chair and looked around. "Anyone knows what that was all about?"

Oghren shrugged, not really caring one way or another. Howe lifted the last arrow from the floor and examined it closely.

"Swearing fealty."

Oghren paused and then spurted his drink with a pffft as he put two and two together. Anders chortled and got up.

"Well, I guess we better shine up for the occasion then. Only…" He paused on the way out and cocked his head to a side, frowning a bit. "Where does 'barley' fit in?"

Howe put the last arrow into the quiver, slung it over one shoulder and picked up his bow.

"Swearing _oaths_ of fealty," he said and left the room.

Anders burst out laughing.

"This is going to be _sooo_ rich."

Oghren belched. Anders grinned.

It was going to be rich indeed.


	23. Headstrong

**A/N****: Plausible? Maybe. Fun? Hell, yeah! Rocking on in the merry land of "If you can get away with crowning two sovereigns, you can bloody well get away with this, too".**

XXX

**Headstrong **

_It is safe to assume that in the aftermath of the reception there would be many nobles who would indeed end up cursing the new Arlessa filthy._

XXX

It could have, on the whole, been worse, Varel decided as he kept a wary eye on the gradually dispersing party. It could have, of course, also been better.

For example, the Commander could have left the guards where they were instead of having Garevel send them all out before the proceedings have even begun. Her assurance to the gathering that no wild canapé are about to sprout fangs and eat them all did meet with general mirth but also raised more than a few dissatisfied eyebrows.

She could have worn a dress, too. Varel was certain he had a maid leave one or two suitable ones in the Commander's room. So naturally, she opted for wearing armour instead, showing up at the reception as if she were going to war instead of a banquet. Which was probably how she had viewed the whole affair anyway. At least she was a match for the two other Wardens in attendance: both Oghren and Anders were in their full battle regalia, complete with the Warden amblems on display.

Those two also could have been more discreet, Varel thought though well aware such thoughts belonged more to the realm of wishful fantasy than actual reality. Technically, it _was_ possible for Oghren not to get stark roaring drunk to the horrified amusement of the nobility present and it _was_ possible for Anders not to strut around like he owned the room. It just wasn't very _probable_.

The mabari ruining Lady's Which-ever-one-it-was fancy dress by mistaking it for a piss spot didn't help things run more smoothly either, especially when the Commander herself nearly keeled over laughing. It did make the dog a temporary star of the day, though, at least among some of the nobility. Others, conversly, were not quite as impressed.

They also could have done without the Commander nearly starting a fight, too, later in the day after most of the party had moved outside, where the drink was more plentiful, the music more bawdy and a drunken guest made a mistake of cuffing a servant for not bringing another cup quickly enough. Normally, a typical incident bound to happen on occasions such as this: not looked kindly upon, but not exactly frowned upon either. It was just one of those things drunk people do sometimes.

The Commander begged to differ and she did so by the way of planting a fist straight into the drunken noble's face. Normaly, there would be guards to deal with that sort of behaviour if the host, or hostess, deemed it necessary. What they got instead was a five foot two worth of a sizzling elf, stunned silence, mouthfull of broken teeth and blood and a pointed reminder that whatever descriptors would mark the new Arlessa's tenure, "typical" was not going to be one of them.

Lacking guards, it was Oghren who had hoisted the bloody-nosed man out of the courtyard and Anders who had diffused the situation by making light of the whole affair in his usual care-free way. Much more importantly, the mage had also managed to diffuse the Commander's wrath before it had a chance to go off fully: "Smooth, Commander. Real smooth. Any smoother than that and we can start using you as a whetstone."

Even Varel had a chuckle at that, though in all honesty, they really could have done without that particular incident.

And all the while, he had just stood there and allowed it all to happen. Mostly because he knew there was no stirring the Commander away from being her hot-headed self, not even for one afternoon. Any attempt would, in fact, have brought on the exact opposite in which case he might as well have put Dworkin in charge of party entertainment and ended up with a slightly less explosive result.

The real reason, though, had been something else. Despite his better judgement, Varel found himself actually amused by the way things went down. There was no doubt that Amaranthine nobles would soon draw the lines regarding their new Arlessa, regardless of what she did or didn't do. This afternoon just might have sped things up but on the other hand, it might have also forestalled some of the conspiracies that would soon begin to brew as the nobility attempted to align their fortunes with the new direction of political winds blowing across the Arling from the Vigil Keep. This particular wind, however, was a completely new thing and watching who will adopt which tactics in order to adjust to previously unknown circumstances would be quite informative.

So all in all, while there were certainly many things they could have done without today the proceedings were, on the whole, good. Except for that one little detail near the end of the whole affair that had Varel on high alert more than any of the previous incidents combined.

They really, _really _could have done without a Howe…

* * *

**Special note****: **

**I will not besmirch the great author by dedicating a silly, self-indulgant chapter to him. His work deserves a much better dedication than this. But I will take the opportunity to offer one final salute to the man who had left us early to avoid the rush. Farewell, Sir Terry - It just won't be the same without you.**


	24. Level-Headed

**A/N****: RL stuff plus lack of enthusiasm draws writing pace to a crawl. Tossing a possible plot hook out there. Anyhing going to come out of it? No bloody idea at this time. Might expand on it, might not, depending on the mood and general inspiration, of which there is very little lately. A bone to chew on, then, for both me and you.**

XXX

**Level-Headed **

_Because someone has to be._

XXX

Nathaniel observed the proceedings from a shadowy patch behind a pillar at the back of the great hall. It was only when the pain in his jaw alerted him to the fact that he became cognizant of having it clenched tight all along. Sudden realization made him pay attention to his hands and he found he'd been idly turning a knife in his right the whole time. And that he itched to hurl it at someone. There were two targets in particular he was finding increasingly tempting: one was standing on the dais; the other one was a portrait on the wall behind him. There was also a third one, namely his own foot, and between the three he found the third one to be the most deserving of getting stabbed: he shouldn't be feeling this way.

And yet, he did.

This was a mockery, a part inside him insisted as the nobles bent a knee one after another, droning on the words of an oath most of them didn't mean. They went through the motions, made the proper sounds; it was a ceremony after all - meaningful for its own sake and little else beside.

It should not be like that.

He was long past the idealistic concepts of youth, yet the notion still crept up his intestines and burrowed itself in the base of his skull, buzzing like an unwanted Darkspawn hum. This _should_ mean something, it insisted. _And it was supposed to be _you_ on that dais, not that… elf_.

His eyes shot wider in momentary surprise. Where in the name of the Maker did that come from? Fully aware of the ridiculousness of the gesture, he still cast a glance over his shoulder at the portrait behind. He half-expected to find it frowning with disdain more than it already did. He tried to shake off the feeling of being stared at from years away and grimaced. If she were alive, that is exactly what she'd be doing right now. Right beside him. The mere idea of such similarity, or any similarity at all, had him disgusted. He turned attention back to the ceremony.

Despite what Varel, and probably everybody else thought, he _didn't_ actually want to be on that dais. It was merely a habit, a lifetime of unquestioned knowledge that one day he would. And, like pretty much everything else in his life, it was but a remnant of a past with nothing to do with the present. He'd had a lot of those lately.

There wasn't time to process everything Delilah had told him until after they returned to the Keep. The insane night run culminating in slaughter effectively erased anything that came before it. But once that was over, everything that got put on hold came pouring back like a flood. And he was barely managing to keep his head above the metaphorical water.

Why did he even come? The answer was simple: pride. And spite. He wasn't a fool, yet he acted like one. About half of those present didn't care either way: they'd align their agendas to whichever winds were blowing with little fuss or scorn. The rest? He had no idea, though it was a safe bet to assume half were trilled to have a new liege and half were decidedly not. All of them? Would definitely take note of a Howe in attendance. No doubt most already knew the rumours, but actual confirmation? Would bring about more trouble than was worth it. Certainly, much more than the Arlling needed right now. Or ever. So why did he come?

Pride, that's why. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? Watching the elf watch the nobles and watching them watch her in turn brought on equal parts of resentment and… a twisted sort of amusement. Try as they might to view her as a Warden - a mere face of an Order, or as the Hero of Ferelden, or as Queen's puppet… Most only saw an elf. Bending a knee to one must have felt ridiculous at best, downright insulting at worst. Twisted amusment came from observing them cope with whatever actual feelings they harboured while putting on a socially acceptable face. More amusing was the realization that while most here observed the elf as something beneath them, the elf, in turn, observed them all as a mabari would a chew toy. And only one of the opposed parties had restraints, social and otherwise.

The resentment came from the exact same source. Any person present in the room, bar perhaps a few, would be more capable, or more deserving or just plain old more interested in standing on that dais than the one who currently occupied it.

Varel had asked him not to come. Not in those exact words, of course - he merely stated a preference for Nathaniel's absence. It made sense, on all possible levels. Pride and spite demanded he come regardless. The more he observed, the more he regretted the decision. He knew he could slip out unnoticed, just as he had slipped in. Yet he kept standing there as if glued to the pillar, finally admitting to himself that yes, he _was_ being an utter fool.

He seemed to be that a lot lately. It was something that would need to change.

XXX

It really shouldn't have surprised him, he thought later on, but it nonetheless did.

It was an hour later, perhaps more, when the official part of the ceremony had ended and most of the guests have filed out to the courtyard to partake in more relaxed atmosphere. Those who opted to remain in the grand hall were either those who took the opportunity to engage in more private conversations or those who thought too highly of themselves to enjoy the lighter merriment outside. It seemed reasonably safe to finally detach himself from the pillar and make his way to one of the long tables that were lined up on either side of the hall: Joining-induced hunger still had him in its clutches. He was confident he could pile up a plate and still remain unnoticed.

He should have known better.

He was still mainly in the shadows, approaching the table as he did from the side opposite of where the guests were standing. From that side, he could easily pass for just about anything: a servant, perhaps, an off-duty guard, a minor something-of-someone's... A polar opposite of Anders and his big "I'm A Mage!" sign permanently hanging around his neck, Nathaniel did not have a sign "Howe!" hanging around his.

Except to those who knew exactly what they were looking for…

XXX

He had seen her approach a moment too late. He had spotted her out of a corner of his eye just as he was about to take a plate and had no time in which to dodge. He tried, but to no avail: she came from around the pillar, from where he did not expect any intrusions, and though he attempted to walk away, pretending not to see her, it was only few strides between them. She covered them easily and appeared right at his shoulder: too close to try and pretend he didn't hear or was the wrong person addressed. She knew his face too well for that.

"Lord Howe."

He expected no less yet it still took a conscious effort not to flinch at the manner he'd been addressed. This whole affair had been one big, pointed reminder of his entire previous life being irreversibly cut off from him, a final brick set into the wall that seperated the "then" and the "from now on". Yet the phantom pain in that detached limb remained, and a poke such as this served only to remind of loss.

He turned graciously and offered a curteous bow of his head.

"Bann Esmerelle. You do me an honour I am no longer entitled to."

She returned his bow and his words with a polite smile and a head bow of her own.

"You have been born to a noble family, Lord Howe. Titles can be bestowed or stripped away; nobility by birthright not so. Should we need examples, we need look no further than King Maric himself."

His face remained polite and passive. "You honour me, Bann Esmerelle." Her cup was empty and manners demanded he refills it.

"Thank you," she said, a small hint of approval on her lips, intentionally making him aware she had decided to interpret his gesture as proof of her words. "Please accept my condolences about your father."

A briefest flinch of pain clouding his features, a murmured "thank you" and maybe, just maybe, a hint of anger (or was it disdain perhaps? or both?) curdling beneath the otherwise stoic posture had been left open for interpretation. If Esmerelle read anything from it, she did not let it on. Instead:

"Your father used to bring you to visit, Lord Howe. I apologize for the familiarity with which I speak, but allow me the courtesy to do so. You were perhaps too little to remember, but I remember those visits fondly."

He watched the lady take a sip and give a slightest frown at the taste. Merited? Likely not, but the underlying message was there, should he care to read it. He allowed himself a small smile.

"I do remember, Bann Esmerelle, though I fear I was indeed too little to truly remember much. Those were…" he hesitated a bit, "…happier times," he finished more quietly.

She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. Some would say with some care; others would say carefully. "Happier times indeed," she replied softly. "If I may be so bold…" She paused and he inclined his head for her to continue.

"I understand you have joined the Grey Wardens, Lord Howe. Is that true?"

The change of subject did not phase him. It was a courtesy question, an old acquintance of the family politely inquiring about his current standing in the world. It was also an interlude to whatever was truly on her mind.

"Indeed I have, Lasy Esmerelle."

She smiled. "I see. It is… comforting, in a way, to know there are still Howes in Vigil Keep. We are, I fear," she sniffed her drink and placed the cup on the table, "creatures of habit. And of traditions." The last words were aimed at the deposited cup. She could be simply talking about the wine served: the wintage offered now was not the one the previous Arl traditionaly brought out for occasions such as these.

His gaze trailed to the cup as well. "I am sad to say that the Darkspawn had been less than considerate in their attack. The Vigil's wine cellars will be long time recovering, my Lady."

If there was a barb entangled in his words, Esmerelle chose not to notice.

"That is most unfortunate. Amaranthine cellars have, mercifully, not suffered such a cruel fate. And I am confident that the Grey Wardens will see that it remains that way. Especially now that they have a Howe in their ranks."

He bowed again, as was proper. "I assure you, Bann Esmerelle, that we shall."

Was it a dance of shadows on her face or did her eyebrow raise slightly at his usage of the word "we"? He could not decide.

"That is a comfort to know, Lord Howe. Allow me to extand my gratitude to the Order on behalf of the people of Amaranthine. And my own."

Another polite smile, another appropriate bow. Bit deeper this time.

"I truly shouldn't keep you from your duties any longer," she said. "But should you ever find yourself with some time to spare, I should be much obliged if you would do me the honour of paying me a visit when you are next in Amaranthine." A warmer expression washed over her features. "I truly do remember your visits with much fondness, and it would be a great pleasure to have you as my guest again."

A bit of surprise at the lady's invitation could be glimpsed if one looked for it. "I…" A slight hesitation underlined it, followed by a smile more genuine than before. "I would like that very much, Bann Esmerelle. Should circumstances permit, it would be an honour to be your guest."

The Lady bowed: "Howes were always welcome in my home." And with those parting words, she took her leave; the softly murmured "thank you" did not pass unnoticed.

XXX

And the entire conversation, though lasting only for a very short time, did not escape notice either. Nathaniel was well aware of Varel's gaze finding them despite the fact they had been sheltered from general sight by another support pillar. He did not give the Senechal any indications that he had noticed, however. He had more important things on his mind right now.

He had been a fool. A level-headed one, but a fool nonetheless. He had already made a decision to rectify that. And now was the time to make few others as well…


End file.
